


dancing queen (guaranteed to blow your mind)

by Quilly



Series: to go romancing [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Arguing, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Changing Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Childhood Friends, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Estrangement, Gender Non-Conforming Warlock Dowling, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by Fanart, Inspired by Mamma Mia! (Movies), Mamma Mia AU, Miscommunication, Multi, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Panic Attacks, Sexual Humor, The Dowlings' Bad Parenting (Good Omens), Weddings, former relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:03:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29904285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: Warlock has a secret, and it's that he invited three former staff members from his estranged parents' household to his wedding in the hopes that one of them is the one Nanny is still in love with.Crowley is just wondering what entity he pissed off to make three of his old flames show up the day before his adopted kid's wedding.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Warlock Dowling/Adam Young
Series: to go romancing [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597387
Comments: 14
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the Mamma Mia AU, I'm so excited! This work was inspired by Masaomoshi's fun art on the idea on their instagram (https://www.instagram.com/p/B4prqk2lzOh/?igshid=13a49h42npwev), though I did make some changes, which will be listed in the programming notes below. Daily update schedule until we finish, so stick around!
> 
> Programming notes:
> 
> \- additional warnings per chapter will be added as they go up; if something should be added to the tag block for the fic, let me know.
> 
> \- Crowley is genderfluid and will have changing pronouns, though they mostly go he/him or they/them for childhood, she/her for the Nanny Ashtoreth days, and he/him for present day. There will be some brief pronoun mixups as people who knew Crowley as Nanny and aren't in the loop of his current preferences use she/her, but it's not technically intended or blatant misgendering (I think; if it is, let me know, I'm still learning how this works, too).
> 
> \- Warlock is gender non-conforming but uses he/him throughout.
> 
> \- in the original fanart, Crowley is pictured more true to Mamma Mia canon as the direct parent to Warlock; in this, he stays as the Nanny. Also, instead of Hastur, I picked Shadwell, for reasons that will be more obvious and I'll discuss more in chapter 2.
> 
> \- Newt/Anathema is listed as ship but the exact nature of their relationship is more ambiguous; however, I felt it would be disingenuous to use the "&" tag, for reasons you'll see in future chapters. Just as a head's up, some of you will likely be uncomfortable about how Anathema acts towards Newt, but it's addressed and rectified, I promise.
> 
> \- title comes from "Dancing Queen" from Mamma Mia! and "Killer Queen" by Queen, because obviously it had to be done :P
> 
> \- there is a fair amount of naughty innuendo but nothing explicit or gross, I promise.
> 
> On with the show, my friends! Hope you all enjoy it!

Warlock Dowling walked his three special invitations to the mainland mailbox in the dead of night, six months before the posted date of the event. He chewed his lip as he looked them over. If this went wrong, Nanny was going to kill him, but if it went right…Warlock sucked in a deep breath, then dropped the envelopes in the box.

“Good luck,” he murmured, then walked away before he could second-guess it enough to try and break into the mailbox with his bare hands.

One envelope dropped into a mailbox with a gold plaque reading “Gabriel Herald” and was put on the top of the mail stack in his penthouse by his personal assistant.

One envelope was crammed through a grubby mail slot in the apartment building of a Sergeant Shadwell and stood out amongst the junk mail and late rent notices.

One envelope slid neatly to the floor of a very old bookshop and was nearly stepped on by a man who had once been Brother Francis as he absently drank his cocoa and paced his shelves.

Gabriel spent twenty minutes trying to remember who Warlock Dowling was, and when it finally clicked, he called his travel agent.

Sergeant Shadwell sniffed the envelope for toxins before slitting it open, reading it twice, and proceeding to do some budgeting that involved calling on three favors and unearthing a coffee can from a public park.

The being formerly known as Brother Francis dithered for an entire month, argued with himself often, re-read the invitation, and booked a flight on the fourth straight day of sleepless deliberation.

Back in Greece, Warlock received three RSVPs and grinned.

.

It was the Wedding Eve, or the day before the wedding, according to most normal people. Warlock was sitting at the kitchen table wrapping black twine around floral centerpieces when Nanny walked in, beaming.

“You might want to get down to the docks,” Nanny said. “Think there’s some interesting flotsam that just washed up.”

“The Them?” Warlock guessed, setting down the twine. “Great! Can you finish this?”

“Reckon I might,” Nanny shrugged, hip-checking him out of the chair and sliding his own skinny backside into it when Warlock vacated it. “Go on, Adam’s fixing a leak and I don’t think I want to interrupt him, judging by the way he was swearing at it.”

“Fair,” Warlock grinned, and dashed to the docks.

Kalokairi was gorgeous in summer. Well, frankly, it was gorgeous all year round, but especially in summer, all blue Mediterranean ocean and dramatic Greek landscape. Nanny had done an excellent job with Villa Antonia in the dozen or so years since he’d inherited it; Warlock spent many an excellent holiday there and it had been his privilege to call home for several years. No better or more romantic place for a wedding, in Warlock’s opinion. Luckily, Adam had agreed, especially once the Them all told him, in no uncertain terms, that a Greek destination wedding to the love of his life was the single coolest thing in the universe.

Warlock could ruminate on the odd, maudlin history that had brought him and Adam, and by extension him and the Them, together. But he wouldn’t. Because there were more important things to do, namely: greet his fiancé’s best friends and get them started on bagging wedding favors.

“There you lot are,” Warlock called as he strode down the deck, slow grin on his face. “Thought you all forgot where the place was.”

“Not our fault,” Brian called as he hauled luggage to the dock from the boat that had brought the three of them. “Wensley got seasick.”

“Actually, I got motion sick on the cab ride to the ferry first,” Wensleydale corrected. “Hello, Warlock.”

“Hey,” Warlock said. “Adam’s tied up, but he’ll be down soon.”

“Yet another detail of your sex life I don’t need,” Pepper smirked, and Warlock flipped her a bird, which she enthusiastically returned. “Give us a hand?”

“Obviously,” Warlock snorted, and began helping Brian, Wensleydale, and Pepper back up to the villa. On the way up, Warlock noticed things he hadn’t on the way down—the cracked paving stones, the overflowing drain pipes, the peeling siding on some of the outbuildings. Warlock grimaced and did his best to tear his attention away from them, instead inundating himself in the lively chatter of his friends.

Getting them sorted took very little time, since all three would be sharing a room, and getting their baggage squared away was a matter of setting the bags down and Brian declaring they could put them away later, beach time first, please.

“Oh, no, you don’t, there’s tons of stuff to get done for tomorrow,” Warlock grinned.

“I knew it. Lured here under false pretenses,” Pepper sighed. “We’ll be curling ribbons and folding origami hearts until we die.”

“Arranging flowers until our fingers fall off,” Brian nodded.

“Actually, where’s Adam? Maybe we could help him finish faster,” Wensleydale asked.

“Pipe in the master bathroom,” Warlock directed, and Brian and Wensleydale nodded and jetted off. Warlock managed to get a hand on Pepper’s shoulder before she joined. “Actually, Pep, can I talk to you first?”

“Yeah,” Pepper nodded, and walked to where her bags were set and dragged them to the bigger, nicer bed in the room, of the three present. “What’s up?”

Now that the moment had come, Warlock felt his insides clam up. Pepper was the best person to talk to about this kind of thing, but…well…Pepper was, in simplest terms, incredibly blunt, and Warlock knew well the shape of his potential mistake. He’d done a lot of thinking on the subject of said mistake, even before he’d admitted to himself that it _was_ a mistake. But he was stalling and Pepper’s eyebrow was raised.

“Look,” Warlock sighed, “I did something—”

“You haven’t told Adam yet,” Pepper interrupted.

“How—”

“Because if you’d told him, you wouldn’t be telling me as a leadup to asking me how to break it to him,” Pepper deadpanned. Warlock sighed. “What did you do? Order a stripper cake? Put American beer in the free bar?”

“You like American beer and you know it,” Warlock rolled his eyes and weathered having a sandal thrown at him as she began sorting through her packed belongings. “I…might have invited some extra people to the wedding.”

“Don’t know why you’d be freaking out about that,” Pepper said. “What did Crowley say?”

Warlock grimaced and squirmed. Pepper straightened from her luggage, stared at him for a moment, and rubbed her temples.

“You haven’t told Crowley, either.”

“I thought I’d surprise him,” Warlock said. “It’s…uh…three blokes she used to work with, back at the house. The gardener, the driver, and the bodyguard.”

“You figured you’d surprise Crowley with three strange men?” Pepper frowned, hands on her hips.

“Not strange, they were involved in my life enough for me to remember them,” Warlock argued. “And. I think…I think Nanny had a. A Thing. With all of them. Not at the same time, probably.”

“A Thing?” Pepper raised her other eyebrow. Uh oh.

“I was a kid, not blind.” Warlock shivered with repressed memories. “I mean, she was always talking to Brother Francis, but then at some point after he left, she sort of…got caught snogging the bodyguard after hours and was seen going out with the driver a couple of times.”

“Got caught? By your parents?” Pepper asked.

“By me,” Warlock said, pulling a face. Pepper actually grinned, the evil sort that meant she was laughing at Warlock’s stupidity.

“So you invited all three,” Pepper said brightly. “Did you dig up Crowley’s teenage flames, too, invite them along? Make it a real party?”

“She had a—a connection with one of them, I just can’t figure out which one,” Warlock argued. “It was the last summer before my parents moved me back to America, and he’s always talking about it like one of the best and worst of his life, I just…can’t get it out of him why, beyond it involving those three.” Warlock folded his arms tight against his chest. “He calls one of them his ‘angel’ and sometimes gets all dewy about it, usually after astronomical amounts of wine, but there’s no way to tell which one it is, even from context clues. So. Yes, I invited all three of them.”

“You’re a mess, Warlock Dowling,” Pepper declared. “There are a billion other ways to surprise Crowley with a good time other than calling up his old squeezes—”

“I know, I know, but it’s already done and they’re all coming, so help me make this go smoothly so I don’t accidentally kill my nanny by giving him a heart attack,” Warlock blurted. “I am actually begging you, one badly-named child to another.”

Pepper rolled her eyes. Then she smirked. “Let me name your and Adam’s next pet and I’ll do it.”

“Fine,” Warlock said, secretly thinking she couldn’t do much worse than Dog and Sister Fish.

“What do you need me to do?”

“They should be coming sometime today or tomorrow,” Warlock said. “I need to keep Nanny occupied so he doesn’t notice. He might not anyway, since the Dynamos should be arriving soon, too, but—just make sure he doesn’t notice anything and Adam doesn’t ask too many questions until I get a minute to tell him. I need some time to figure out which one is the angel.”

“Damage control for when this all blows up in your face, got it,” Pepper said, and patted Warlock’s shoulder as she passed. “Good luck with that.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Warlock sighed, and followed her out. Lots to do, even without wedding day subterfuge to keep on top of.

.

Aziraphale was not having the best morning.

His flight to Greece had been delayed, his airport tea was sub-standard at best, and by the time he’d run, huffing and puffing and carrying his bulky aged suitcase, to the end of the dock, the ferry he had needed to be on minutes ago was already well out into the bay.

“Bugger,” he cursed.

“My sentiments exactly,” an unpleasantly familiar voice said, and Aziraphale stiffened. Surely this day couldn’t get any worse. He turned, and apparently it could, because there, in an expensive suit with a rolling suitcase, stood his cousin, Gabriel, fanning his face with a New York newspaper and blinking in surprise at him.

“Oh, hey, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. “What’re you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” Aziraphale said, feeling rather like a threatened bird as his chest puffed out. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Oh, that Warlock kid sent me a wedding invite,” Gabriel said, reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out an identical invitation to the one currently in Aziraphale’s own pocket. “Let me guess, book sale, or something?”

“Same reason, in fact,” Aziraphale said. The silence that stretched between them was stuffy and uncomfortable and was not helped by the increasing Greek temperatures as the morning began to melt into afternoon. “Well. It seems as though we’ll have to find a different way to the island. The ferry won’t return until after the wedding, according to the schedule.”

“Huh,” Gabriel said, and looked around, as if waiting for a yacht to manifest itself. “Well, maybe we can—”

“You laddies lost?” an unplaceable accent called, and Aziraphale and Gabriel both turned to see a grubby fishing boat nearby, hosting a man who seemed familiar…where had Aziraphale seen him before? He squinted as the man doffed his cap and waved it. “Headed to Kalokairi, are ye?”

“Do we know you?” Gabriel called.

“The name’s Shadwell,” the man replied, and Aziraphale’s jaw dropped.

“Lance Corporal Shadwell? The bodyguard?” Aziraphale asked, walking towards the fishing boat. “My goodness, you’ve—certainly changed, haven’t you?”

“Aye,” Shadwell grunted, and as Aziraphale got closer, he realized it was, indeed, the same man who had been a bodyguard at the Dowling estate around the same time Aziraphale had been the gardener. “Though it’s Sergeant now. Sergeant Shadwell. Who’re you, then? Recognize the American ponce, but not you.”

“Oh, well, you might not,” Aziraphale said. “I was going by Brother Francis and left just shortly after you arrived, good fellow.”

“Eh?” Shadwell squinted, walking to the railing of the boat, and Aziraphale tried not to squirm under the attention. “Well. Warlock send you an invite, too?”

“He sent you one?” Gabriel asked, and Shadwell took out a dirtied, dogeared envelope from his pocket and waved it in the air.

“Seeing as how we’re going to the same place, come on aboard, you can help sail the old girl,” Shadwell said, and retreated back onto the boat’s deck. Aziraphale inspected the side and saw the boat’s name was _The Witchfinder Navy_ , and illustrated below seemed to be a naked woman in a witch’s hat being burned at the stake.

“Eurgh,” Aziraphale said.

“My sentiments exactly,” Gabriel replied. Aziraphale stowed the deep sigh welling up in him and began to climb aboard. For Warlock, at least, he could bear the indignities being heaped upon him. For Warlock, and…and for certain others. Other, singular, rather.

But best not to get his hopes up too high.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More notes at the end but quickly at the top: 1. I forgot to mention it but Gabriel is going to be very OOC in this fic, closer to a himbo than in canon; while canon Gabriel is oodles of fun, he's not exactly romcom material, and a himbo version of him is always fun to play with, and since Gabriel is not the same as in the show, Aziraphale's relationship with him and his behavior towards him is also pretty different; 2. The reason why I swapped Shadwell in instead of Hastur should become fairly obvious this chapter. More in the end-notes but bear with me! (Mild slut-shaming if you squint in the final section of the chapter, just fyi, and canon-typical Shadwell bleating.)

“Last ferry from the mainland’s coming in,” Crowley’s accountant and handyman and generally unlucky perpetual guest Newton Pulsifer said, poking his head into where Crowley was sitting with a half-finished centerpiece in his hands and was definitely not staring into space with mute overwhelmed dread.

“Thanks,” Crowley said. Then the words actually registered. “Wait, what?”

“Last ferry from the mainland—” Newt _oof_ ed as Crowley bolted upright, shoved the centerpiece into Newt’s gut, and took off like a shot for the docks. Crowley’s cracked shoes weathered the crumbling stone and wood as he ran, loose scarlet curls streaming behind him. Many people milling around Villa Antonia, either for the wedding or waiting for Crowley to finally pay them back, were surely staring; Crowley hadn’t run anywhere since Warlock stopped hiding at bath times and at the end of summer. The years melted away as excitement thrummed through him. How long had it been? Five years? Six?

At the end of the dock, unloading from the ferry, were three figures, two intimately familiar to Crowley, one less so but no less welcome. Crowley put his hands in his dungarees pockets and smirked.

“Well, would you look what the tide dragged in!” he called, and all three figures straightened. The lady sporting orange hair put her back against that of the lady wearing a dress older than she was, and both mimed holding microphones, even as the one with the dress rolled her eyes.

“For one night!” Madame Tracy cried, pointing her free hand into the sky. “And one night only!”

“Presenting,” Agnes Nutter said after a small elbow nudge from Tracy, “all the way from Avalon and the lands beyond—”

“You know ‘em, you love ‘em, it’s Toni and the Dynamos!” Crowley roared, then ran full-tilt down the dock to fling himself onto Tracy and Agnes and hug the life from them. Agnes gave him two demure pats and withdrew; Tracy half-crushed the breath from his lungs as she embraced him.

“Hello, Crowley, love,” Tracy cooed. “Don’t you look lovely and tan and healthy!”

“You’d think I’d died, with how you carry on every time you see me,” Crowley grumbled. There was movement, and he remembered the third person on the dock, a tall and slender young lady who had Agnes’ frightfully intense eyes. “Is that little Anathema Device I see back there?”

“Untie Crowley,” Anathema nodded, and cracked a smile as Crowley hugged her, too. “Been a long time.”

“Not near long enough for you to have grown up on me,” Crowley complained, then grabbed Tracy and Agnes’ hands. “Come on up, the place is—well, it’s coming along—”

Tracy was all smiles and Anathema polite nods as Crowley escorted his two oldest friends and honorary niece back up the hill to Villa Antonia; it was Agnes’ piercing gaze that made Crowley babble nervously about things like vintage shiplap and weatherproofing and so on. By the time they made it to the patio landing just under Crowley’s room, which had two other beds lugged into it, all four of them were panting, Tracy wincing as she tried to walk in her kitten heels.

“Poor fashion choice, this,” she lamented.

“You’re not the one in full Victorian skirts,” Crowley grinned as both Anathema and Agnes glared at him, fanning themselves and their glowing faces. “Come on, it’s just a bit—”

“Nanny!” Warlock shouted as he poked his head out of an upper window. “Adam says—”

“Get down here to tell me about it, and greet your aunties while you do,” Crowley interrupted, and Warlock flashed a smile before pulling his head in.

“He’s grown up a right beauty, Crowley,” Tracy beamed. “Trousers, or dress, for tomorrow?”

“He takes after his nanny, what do you think?” Crowley snorted as Warlock rocketed out of the stairwell and directly into Tracy’s waiting arms.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Agnes snorted back. “Hello, Warlock, you probably don’t remember me—”

“Of course I do, Auntie Agnes,” Warlock grinned, and gave her a short squeeze. “And—Anathema, right?”

“Good memory,” Anathema smiled and bobbed her head, holding out a hand for Warlock to shake. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Warlock nodded. “Anyway, Adam said—”

“Warlock! Did you tell him yet?” Adam himself asked, coming up the stairs behind Anathema and Agnes.

Crowley threw up his hands. “Someone tell me what Adam said, before I die of old age.”

“Oh, just that the bathroom’s fixed,” Adam chirped, and threw an arm around Warlock’s shoulders. “Are you Crowley’s old bandmates?”

“The one and only,” Tracy smiled, and held out her hand. “Hello, young man, I’m Madam Tracy, medium most days but Thursdays.”

“And I’m Agnes Nutter, witch,” Agnes nodded.

“Cool,” Adam grinned. “And who’re you?”

“Anathema Device, occultist,” Anathema replied. “You’re Adam Young, right?”

“Unless I’m in trouble,” Adam smirked. Warlock pinched his side.

“Might as well just call you trouble most days,” Crowley grumbled. “Help us get these bags upstairs, would you? Where’s Newt?”

“Here,” Newt said mildly from the stairs, where he had been lurking without notice, and grabbed up Anathema and Agnes’ luggage, it being closest to him. “Just upstairs, then?”

“I have my own room,” Anathema informed him. “You can take my stuff there when you get done helping my grandmother.”

“Sure,” Newt said, and had Crowley not known Agnes, he might’ve missed the beginnings of a twinkle in her eye. As it was, he stifled a groan. Nothing good ever came of that twinkle.

“What’s the plan after the wedding, then, Warlock?” Agnes asked as they trekked up the stairs to Crowley’s room.

“Oh, more of the same, just stay and help out around the villa,” Warlock said brightly. “Adam and I are building a website for the place. I just think it’s such a beautiful destination, but nobody knows it’s here, so we don’t get as much traffic.”

“We get plenty,” Crowley grunted.

“How much is plenty?” Tracy puffed.

“Well…you know…some,” Crowley grimaced, and opened the door to his rooms. “Here we are. Finally. Everyone in.”

“Could always have more,” Adam said as he set the luggage he had been carrying down. “Right, Newt?”

“Oh—um—yes,” Newt stammered, still holding Anathema’s suitcase. “I’ll just—Crowley, which room—”

“The green one on the floor below,” Crowley said, and Newt bobbed his head and began taking Anathema’s things away.

“That’s a goodly lad,” Agnes said quietly, more to Anathema than to the rest of them. “Mark him, Anathema, you could do far worse than a man like that.”

Crowley expected Anathema to scoff or laugh off Agnes’ remarks, as Warlock would have done if Crowley had said something similar. Instead, Anathema got a laser-focused thoughtful look, staring down after Newt, which made Crowley uneasy, but he figured Newt was grown and could look after himself, even against generational witches.

“What sort of thing would you put on a website to get people to come, boys?” Tracy asked, pulling Crowley into the wider conversation.

“Oh, the spring, definitely,” Warlock nodded. “The villa’s built on an old spring dedicated to Aphrodite, according to local legend. Supposedly whoever drank the water was guaranteed eternal happiness and true love.”

“You know, soppy stuff you can market to honeymooners and desperate pre-divorcees,” Adam said with a wolfish sort of grin. “The spring’s not here anymore but it’s nothing to ham up the legend a bit, make it a draw.”

“All things we can talk about in more detail later,” Crowley said firmly. “Are those centerpieces finished?”

“Duty calls,” Adam sighed. “Flowers won’t wrap themselves in twine, I suppose.”

“Oh, stop, if you had your way, we’d be going to a courthouse in jeans and wash the whole elopement down with beer,” Warlock teased, hip-checking his fiancé.

“You make me sound so unromantic,” Adam pouted. “I just thought we might save the money for travel.”

“We’re not going anywhere yet, it’s fine,” Warlock said, and pecked Adam on the mouth. Tracy wolf-whistled and Crowley grinned as Warlock flushed.

“Off, the both of you, there’s a lot to get done,” Crowley shooed.

“Away we go, then,” Adam said, and pulled Warlock away with him.

“They seem well-matched,” Agnes said, once they were well out of earshot. “You must be happy for young Warlock.”

“Overjoyed,” Crowley nodded, dragging Tracy and Agnes’ suitcases to their respective beds.

“Seem a bit attached to your apron strings, don’t they?” Tracy mused, kicking off her heels and relaxing into a chair, which gave an ominous creak.

“Don’t sit on that, it’s broken,” Crowley snipped, and Tracy stood just as the chair’s seat entirely bottomed out. “I don’t mind Warlock staying close if it’s what he wants. Wedding and all. _If_ it’s what he wants.”

“If?” Agnes mused. “Do you not think he wants to, then?”

Crowley hesitated. “I…”

Tracy’s head perked up from where she was arranging her suitcase. Agnes’ eyebrows lowered. Crowley sighed.

“I think he’s rushing into it, is all,” Crowley mumbled. “If he were anything like me, he wouldn’t be getting married so young.”

“Or at all,” Agnes commented.

“Yes, alright,” Crowley griped, sitting on his bed and tucking up his legs. “If getting married is what he wants, fine, I just worry he’s…maybe just rushing things. He’s only known Adam a year, after all.”

“Not everyone can meet their soulmate when they’re ten and decide within five minutes that they’re going to marry them,” Tracy tutted, and Crowley twitched. “If he knows, he knows. No shame in that.”

“I’m not sure he does know, is the thing,” Crowley argued. “You ask Warlock outright, he’s all smiles and determination, but you watch him like I have, and he’s—nervous. Something’s up with him and he isn’t telling me what it is.”

“Grown children are their own people,” Agnes said, far too serene for Crowley’s immediate liking.

“And they’re pills,” Crowley muttered.

“That, too,” Agnes nodded, and Crowley chortled.

“But it’s not like I can do or say anything to change his mind once he makes it,” Crowley shrugged. “Warlock—and Adam too—make their own choices, and I have to respect them. And I’m happy to, ‘course I am, with what Warlock had to go through with his own parents. Perfectly happy.”

“So you’re ready for them to leave you and go gallivanting and adventuring in the wide world, if it’s what they want?” Agnes asked, raising her eyebrow and turning to Tracy to begin unbuttoning her dress.

“Well, I want what’s best for Warlock and Adam,” Crowley said, and chuckled. “Of course I love having them close by, but as soon as they’re not happy with it, I’ll have to learn how to let them both go.”

“Could always start learning earlier rather than late,” Agnes replied, stripping out of her dress. “Or go traveling yourself, Crowley. Not too late for that.”

“And leave the villa?” Crowley frowned, crossing to a window as Agnes dressed herself in a considerably lighter dress than the one she’d had on previously. “When I’ve almost got it where I—watch it!”

The shutter, which Crowley had tried to open, fell off of the window frame entirely and clattered to the walkway below, where a group of locals were looking up with affronted glares.

“Bloody place is falling apart around my ears,” Crowley muttered, and stalked out of his room to go fetch the shutter. Agnes and Tracy followed, the latter in more sensible walking-about shoes. “I work my tail off, I pay what I can on my bills, I push off the ones I can’t, usually locals—thank you, yes, I know about the shutter, I’m sorry—and I’m still barely covering my bases.” Crowley accepted the shutter from the fisherman who handed it to him, aware he was monologuing but unable to stop himself, really. Where was the drill? Right, probably still down in the toolbox just off the main courtyard. He led the way there, very pointedly ignoring the looks Tracy and Agnes were exchanging.

“Might as well go to Las Vegas or something, gamble away what I’ve got left and try for a big win,” Crowley griped, then shoved the shutter at Agnes. “Hold this, please.” He wrenched open the old wooden toolbox and began rummaging around in it. “Maybe a rich spouse will finally come along.”

“Hard to find one of those just sitting around,” Tracy remarked. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Don’t think one would be interested in a wash-up like me anyway,” Crowley snorted, and found the drill. “Here it is.”

“Well, what about that young man all those years ago?” Agnes asked as Crowley began to lead them back across the courtyard to the stairs. “The one with the bookshop—”

“Don’t you dare!” Crowley snarled, turning on his heel, and in that instant the island rumbled, shook, and a huge crack wound its way across the dolphin in the center of the courtyard.

“What was that?” Tracy yelped. Crowley, distracted from his vitriol, cackled.

“The earth moved, Trace, we’re falling apart here,” he said, and shot Agnes a warning look. Agnes merely shrugged. “Come on, I’ve got to go fix that window, then we can get into the champagne early, have ourselves a snifter. Sound good?”

“Always,” Tracy nodded, and grinning, Crowley led them back upstairs, his brief disquiet at Agnes’ mention of someone he hadn’t had to think about seriously in years calmed. That chapter of his life was over; Crowley was a different person now, with a very different life. No need to go picking at old scars. But that was Agnes, picking at everything she saw, just to see what it did. Marvelous of her, really. Crowley enjoyed it greatly when aimed at anyone but himself.

Maybe it was still too early to start mixing up mimosas, but in Crowley’s estimation, if he had to break out the power tools before eleven in the morning, he could break out the booze, too. There was a wedding tomorrow, after all.

.

Sailing a small boat with three men should have been relatively easy, but the longer the Southern Pansy and the American Ponce continued to misinterpret Shadwell’s very clear directions, the less confident Shadwell felt about the whole thing. Well, sailing to Greece was maybe one of his more harebrained schemes, leaving London undefended and all, but needs must.

“Nae, don’t tangle it like it’s a great bloody ball of yarn, you’ll—oh, leave off, come take the wheel,” Shadwell griped, shooing the American Ponce from where he was tangling the Very Important Rope, and securing it properly himself (or, rather, as properly as he knew how, and seeing as how he’d taught himself sailing this very trip, he was certainly the expert).

“You two going to the wedding, too, then?” the American Ponce said brightly from the wheel, which to his credit he was not spinning about like a massive idiot but holding steady as Shadwell had been doing. “Why?”

“Oh—you know,” the Southern Pansy panted from where he was working on another Very Important Rope and at least not letting himself get slid about the deck by the weight of it. “Master Warlock was—a very bright young man—”

“Cute kid,” the American Ponce nodded. “Powerful parents.”

“I suppose there’s your motive explained,” the Southern Pansy said, more than a touch bitterly as Shadwell helped him secure his line. There, so long as the wind stayed as it was, they should reach the island within an hour or less. “Nothing about Warlock, all about his parents’ position.”

“Hey, I said he was cute,” the American Ponce protested, and rolled his eyes when Shadwell shooed him from behind the wheel. “Just good business, really, keeping up that acquaintance. Why, what are you here for? You’re telling me you’re actually here for the kid?”

The Southern Pansy flushed but didn’t answer, instead looking to Shadwell. “What about you, Sergeant? You don’t seem the type to go haring off to another country on a whim.”

“Not especially,” Shadwell grunted, adjusting course. “But a good sergeant checks in with his privates now and again.”

“His what?” the American Ponce stage-whispered, with a look of childish glee.

“His privates!” Shadwell declared. “Young Private Dowling’s been in the Witchfinder Army since he was a bairn, and as good a soldier as any—helped keep an eye on that temptress of a nanny when I was busy elsewhere.”

“Temptress!” the Southern Pansy cried.

“I’d agree with that,” the American Ponce said, with too much eyebrow and teeth.

“What on earth are you going on about?” the Southern Pansy asked, rather more fiercely than Shadwell was expecting a soft touch like him to be capable of.

“I’m just saying, the song has it right about naughty nannies,” the American Ponce shrugged. “Fat-bottomed girls, not so much, more of a flat-bottomed—”

“Oh, for—be quiet,” the Southern Pansy hissed, and stomped off. Wasn’t a lot of places to go, on a sailboat deck, but Shadwell would give him points for drama, if he was the sort to give anything at all points.

“You know what I mean, though, right?” the American Ponce asked after two minutes of awkward silence and sailing. “Nanny Ash, she was—”

“A servant of the devil as any I ever saw,” Shadwell barked, not dealing very well with the bloom of embarrassment in his stomach. It didn’t happen often, but bringing up that red-haired she-demon was a surefire way to make it happen. “All full of wiles, and—and hips. Riding the devil’s broomstick, that one.”

“Nah, too much of a tease for that,” the American Ponce said, and if Shadwell had to name the expression, he’d call it a pout. “More like calling the devil’s broomstick for a couple weeks, going on a few dates, getting to second base, and then never talking to it again.”

Shadwell considered this, compared it with his own history. “Ye might have a point, at that,” he muttered, ignorant of the pink in his cheeks. “Still a witch.”

The awkward silence that descended was fine. Shadwell occupied silences of all types; awkward was the least of his worries, as Kalokairi drew nearer on the horizon. If Nanny Ashtoreth was going to be in attendance, which was likely, he had more pressing matters at hand. The Witchfinder Army had to be ever-vigilant, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Agnes Nutter and Madam Tracy are the other two-thirds of the Dynamos, whee! Some reasoning:
> 
> \- it's entirely the fault of this comic by icestorming (https://icestorming.tumblr.com/post/189360557462/hi-there-i-am-sorry-if-i-disappeared-but-it-has), which features a sort of witchy dance with Crowley, Anathema, and Tracy that completely captured my imagination; I considered swapping Anathema in for Agnes as a sort of "Anathema is a legacy member taking over for her dead relative", but it felt a little morbid (though now that I've actually seen Mamma Mia 2, it could have been a fun callback...oh well, missed opportunities), and I wanted to have some fun with Agnes and Anathema and a possible dynamic they might have if they were both present. Might not quite pay off the way I first imagined when I was drafting, but I think what comes out of it is interesting. I also thought including the witches instead of the demons was more fun, bc as interesting as it could have been to have the Dynamos made up of, say, Beelzebub and Ligur or Dagon, it just didn't feel right to me this time around.
> 
> \- and since I had Madam Tracy included, I wanted to throw Shadwell into the mix instead of Hastur! Young Shadwell in the show is unreasonably dreamy, so it kinda-sorta works out that a younger Crowley would have been amenable to hooking up with him :P 
> 
> \- you'll take juvenile humor about privates away from me when I'm dead, and until then, I'm gonna laugh my immature butt off about it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some mild slut-shaming and Plot Thickening (and cramming three musical numbers from the film into a single chapter, but that's what happens when you can't really have a musical number in a written medium and have to make do). Thanks so much for the comments and kudos; I don't often have the spoons to reply but I adore your excitement!

Warlock happened to be at the docks when the strange sailboat arrived, having sent Adam to deal with putting together wedding favors while he kept an eye out for guests who either missed the ferry and had rented private boats (as Adam’s parents were supposed to be doing the following day), or who possibly had decided to swim to the island (could never be too careful, with these things).

There were three people on board the sailboat, from what Warlock could see, and as he watched, he realized he might’ve recognized one of them—his parents’ driver for a summer, Mr. Herald, had been tall and dark-haired and broad, just like the man in the grey suit currently getting berated by the grubby-looking captain for something to do with the anchor, or maybe the sails. There was also a person with fluffy pale hair that tickled at Warlock’s memory. He approached, frowning, as the people on the boat disembarked, carrying luggage.

“You there!” the tall, broad man called. “Are you the valet?”

Warlock arched an eyebrow, and the pale-haired man who looked so familiar smiled, placing a hand on his heart, a familiar ring gleaming on his pinky.

“No,” he said, “it’s Master Warlock, isn’t it?”

Master Warlock? Only one person had ever really called him that, and worn a pinky ring while doing it.

“Brother Francis?” Warlock asked, and the pale-haired man beamed.

“I’ve…I suppose I look differently now than I did,” Brother Francis said, self-consciously patting where his enormous sideburns used to be.

“Not the only one, are ye, seems the lad’s gone and sprouted,” the grubby captain grunted, and his accent was so bizarre and unmistakable Warlock gaped.

“Mr. Shadwell? Mr. Herald?”

“Got it in one,” Mr. Herald grinned, sticking out his large hand. “Call me Gabriel now, kid, you’re all grown up. Where’s your folks?”

“Sergeant Shadwell, laddie, and I hope you’ve been keeping your eye out for witches like we said,” Shadwell said.

Warlock looked between the three of them, heart hammering in his chest. They all looked so different now—even Mr. Herald, or Gabriel, who was wearing nice suits now instead of a polyester staff uniform. Brother Francis and Shadwell were almost unrecognizable, one looking inexplicably fresher, the other shockingly older. He fought down the frustrated scream building in his chest. How was he supposed to figure out which one of these strangers was Nanny’s angel now?

But that was his own fault; Warlock had accounted for everything but the fact that fifteen years changed people. Sometimes _really_ changed people, apparently. So he bucked himself up, and grinned, and held out his hand in return, shaking the ones offered.

“Thanks for being here,” Warlock said. “My parents aren’t coming. I’ll show you to your room, if you want.”

“Aren’t coming?” Gabriel frowned as Warlock took the lead. “Hang on—”

“Oh, come along,” Brother Francis said, and his voice, even in a different accent, had an edge Warlock had never heard before, not even when he was in trouble for digging up the begonias looking for frogs.

The walk to where Warlock was planning on stashing them was quiet as Warlock chewed over what to say. He couldn’t lose focus now. All three had made it, somehow, and now Warlock had about twenty-four hours to figure out which one was going to make up with Nanny and be together like Nanny had always wanted, all without Nanny finding out until it was time. Somehow.

“Here we go,” Warlock said, stopping in front of the old goathouse-turned-garage. It wasn’t much even by the villa’s standards, warped wooden structure more peel than paint and the windows boarded up. Nanny had visions once of turning it into a loft or a carriage house, but like many of his other projects for the place, it had fallen by the wayside when funds continued to not present themselves. It was the perfect hiding place; Nanny rarely came down here, since all the villa staff stored here were barely-used tools and various piles of junk nobody really remembered acquiring.

“Very funny,” Gabriel said, clapping Warlock too hard on the back. “Nice scenic tour. I’d like to be shown my room now.”

“Dinnae hold your breath, ponce, these’re the accommodations,” Shadwell rolled his eyes, and somehow, that helped Warlock immensely in seeing under the grime and the greyed hair to the no-nonsense nonsensical Lance Corporal who had shown Warlock how to sneak and how to watch out for witches.

“It’s an adventure, Gabriel,” Brother Francis snipped. “It’s good for you.”

“An adventure?” Gabriel said, thoughtfully. “Huh. An adventure.”

“Come on in,” Warlock said, and all but shoved them inside. “Up the ladder, down here’s the garage part.”

It was difficult getting Brother Francis’ suitcase up the ladder—it was really heavy, for some reason—but it worked out, until Warlock was sitting on the floor, watching the three adults he’d covertly invited mill around, choosing corners, unearthing an old air mattress. He tried to breathe. Gabriel was an angelic name, right? Could have been him. Sergeant Shadwell seemed to be muttering bastardized bible verses under his breath as he swore at the air mattress, so that was a clue in his favor. Brother Francis…glowed, sometimes, when he passed by a window and the light caught in his hair just so. Definitely angel-like in that respect. Warlock bit his lip. He had no idea what to do. Maybe he’d had some sort of childish fantasy that if he saw them again, he would _know_ which one was Nanny’s angel and everything would somehow work itself out. Welp. He should have known better than that.

“What do you mean your parents aren’t here?” Gabriel demanded as Warlock blinked back into the present. “Where else would they be? On their way?”

“They’re not coming,” Warlock said, two irate shades away from snapping, and stood up.

“Not coming?” Gabriel cried.

“They’re your folks, bairn, where else would they be, with their young lad getting married?” Shadwell frowned.

Brother Francis said nothing, but the look he was giving Warlock was full of pity and it made Warlock want to break out in hives.

“Doesn’t matter,” Warlock said roughly. “But. I really appreciate you guys being here, at least. Means a lot.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Brother Francis said softly.

At that moment, a familiar voice sounded outside. Nanny, it sounded like, talking loudly to someone, his words indistinct but volume suggesting irritation. Warlock froze, and his illicit invites froze, and there were a few heartbeats where nobody moved.

“It’s Crow—Miss Ashtoreth,” Brother Francis breathed, standing.

“Would be rude to not say hey,” Gabriel said, making his way to his feet.

“Came all this way,” Shadwell reasoned, taking a step towards the ladder.

“No!” Warlock squeaked, and gritted his teeth when that made Brother Francis, Gabriel, and Shadwell look at him funny. “No, I mean—Nanny doesn’t know I invited you.”

“You—what?” Brother Francis went abruptly white in the face.

“Why does that matter?” Gabriel snorted.

“Because it’s his villa, it’s—look, he doesn’t know I invited you three here as a—a surprise, for him, and if he sees you before tomorrow, he’ll—it’ll ruin the surprise,” Warlock stammered, thinking as quickly as he could. “Just, please, please stay in here until my wedding, and don’t tell anybody I brought you here, and please come to my wedding, please? Please?”

“Alright,” Shadwell said, and plopped back down.

“Warlock, I can’t—the last time your Nanny saw me, she said she didn’t care if she never saw me again,” Brother Francis said, looking ill. “If I’m here, and she—he—doesn’t know—”

“Water under the bridge, Brother Francis, trust me, he’s going to be so pleased,” Warlock lied. “Look, I have to go, but—promise me? Promise me you’ll come tomorrow?”

There was a beat of silence, and then Gabriel sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “Not like I’m getting out of here without Shadwell’s boat anyway.”

“Nope,” Shadwell said, almost cheerfully. “I’ll be there, lad, dinnae you worry. Not a proper nuptial without an exorcism, anyway.”

“Alright, Master Warlock,” Brother Francis said quietly, though he didn’t look happy. Then Brother Francis sniffed, and straightened his shoulders, and smiled. “Whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” Warlock said, and shimmied back down the ladder and out of the goathouse, his heart hammering in his chest.

This was fine. He could handle this. Just three strange men with connections to his beloved caregiver and Warlock with no idea whatsoever which one was Nanny’s real love. So long as they stayed out of sight, he could manage it.

.

Crowley, crammed on a couch with Agnes and Tracy, was so far blissfully unaware of anything untoward or wrong with the world at all. His mimosas were sitting warm and bubbly in his belly, and he had completely forgotten what they were all giggling about, but figured whatever it was, it made him feel good and light, which hadn’t happened in a while. Yes, he was still holding the drill, but he had mostly forgotten that fact, once he fixed the shutter and Tracy had started mixing the drinks.

He leaned his head back, looking up at the ceiling as he caught his breath, and saw a spiderweb crack in the paint. Crack…crack…

“Oh my Satan,” he groaned, sitting upright, “I have a crack in my courtyard, I—I have to go fix—”

“Steady on, love, you don’t have to do everything yourself, you know,” Tracy said, pushing Crowley back into the couch between her and Agnes.

“If I don’t do it, nobody else will,” Crowley protested as Agnes began petting his hair with a calculated smile on her face.

“Should hire some more help around this place. I’m more than happy to offer a loan, if you need it, sweet,” Agnes said, and Crowley, who had been going in for another sip of mimosa, nearly spat it out.

“No, no, no, I—don’t mind me, I’m just complaining, you know how I get,” Crowley said quickly. He loved Agnes immensely, and knew that if she wanted to she could probably buy this whole island, with her good luck in predicting lucrative investments having since paid out enormous dividends, but the idea of borrowing money—no. No, no, no.

“It’s not an imposition, Crowley, I just want to be sure you’re taken care of,” Agnes said, with a sincerity not often heard in her dry, sensible voice. Crowley waved her off, shaking his head.

“And are you being taken care of?” Tracy asked lightly. Crowley furrowed his brow at her, and Tracy raised her eyebrows, grinning. “Don’t play coy, I’m just asking!”

“Taken care of?” Crowley asked. “Oh, you mean—”

Without warning he revved the drill, and Tracy shrieked. Crowley and Agnes both burst out laughing, sinking further into the couch. Tracy swatted him, joining in their laughter.

“No,” Crowley said, once they’d all caught their breaths. “And thank Someone for it, too, can you imagine if I had to take care of this place plus keep up with a sex life?”

“More plumbing to be maintained, for certain,” Agnes nodded wisely. “If you’re happy with that, then we’re happy for you.” Agnes turned Crowley’s face towards her, with an intense eye. “Are you happy with that?”

Crowley shoved down the buildup of over a decade and a half of lonely nights and pining with a vicious single-mindedness and smiled.

“I’m—alright,” he said, and cursed himself at the vocal catch he hadn’t been expecting. Agnes and Tracy exchanged a Look over his head, and he growled, struggling upright, prancing his feet to work the blood back into where they had been beginning to go numb.

“I’ve got to—put the drill back,” Crowley muttered, and pushed his hair back from his face. “You two, feel free to find the cantina while I get some work done.”

He pretended not to hear the twin sighs that followed him as he exited the room.

Bloody Agnes and Tracy, Crowley brooded as he stalked back down to the toolbox. He was _fine_. They didn’t have to worry about him. Warlock did plenty of that, and Adam, too, besides.

He passed the crack in the courtyard and sighed. Right. That.

Crowley put the drill away in the toolbox, but rummaging around did not produce the caulk he knew he had somewhere. Must’ve been in the garage, then. Quick enough walk, he’d already passed it earlier picking up the shutter and making it to the toolbox in the first place. He thought he saw Warlock slipping around a corner, but dismissed it, and walked into the garage. He knew that caulking gun was around here somewhere…

There was a thump, just overhead, and a definite male voice swearing.

Crowley froze.

“Bollocks,” he muttered, and crept up to the hatch to see what squatter was taking up space in the unused goathouse loft now. He cracked the door just a hair, and nearly slammed it shut in shock when an unmistakable jawline and diplomatic smile dazzled him. It couldn’t be. He was hallucinating. It—

He looked in a different direction, and saw a flash of a coat with a distinctive band around the arm, and felt faint. No. No way. Not here. Not now.

A shift in movement caught his eye, and Crowley’s vision was entirely filled with a cloud of fluffy hair and a flash of blue-hazel eyes.

He did shut the hatch, then, fighting for breath, trying to be quiet about it. What the blessed bleeding Heaven and _Hell_ —

Crowley wasn’t aware of escaping the garage to lean against it and hyperventilate, but he must have done, because here he was, leaning against the garage and hyperventilating. No. He had to be seeing things. There was no way, the odds were so astronomically huge—it was impossible! Downright impossible!

He physically slapped himself across the face, then pushed his hair back and started climbing the narrow ladder up to the roof. There was another hatch up there, where he could get a better look and confirm that his eyes were playing tricks on him. He tripped on the roof, and the hatch stuck a bit, but he didn’t hear much of an interruption in the steady flow of conversation below, so he carefully pried the hatch open and peered down. There they were, two familiar heads of hair and one familiar ugly hat, moving around in his bloody goathouse, of all places.

“Mamma mia,” Crowley breathed, and then the next thing he knew, he was falling—maybe the wind had blown too hard, or he got vertigo, or the universe had decided to punish him for actually saying the phrase “mamma mia” out loud, or something—through the hatch, and landed on a half-inflated air mattress, his legs up in the air, while Gabriel Herald, Lance-Corporal Shadwell, and Aziraphale Fell looked down at him with a mix of surprise, delight, and concern.

“You always did know how to make an entrance, Crowley,” Aziraphale said with a bashful smile. Crowley darted his gaze between all three, his lungs working like bellows.

“I’d better be dreaming,” he snapped, “and you three had better not be here.”

“Would ye like a pinch, then, Nanny?” Shadwell offered, and Crowley kicked at him as he reached.

“Keep your hands to yourself!” Crowley snarled. He sat up, glaring as hard as he knew how. “Well. Shadwell. Gabriel. You cleaned up for yourselves, it looks like. Or, one of you did, anyway.”

“Yeah, my cutting-off didn’t stick,” Gabriel chirped. “Need a hand up?”

“I’ve got it,” Crowley growled, and did, in fact, struggle upright on his own, despite the three hands held out to help him up. “What are you lot doing here?”

“I’m on an adventure,” Gabriel beamed.

“Hunting for witches,” Shadwell nodded.

“I—I just came by to…say hello,” Aziraphale said, his voice meek. Crowley found looking at him in particular for too long too painful, so he didn’t, instead tossing his fall-tousled hair back over his shoulder and ignoring the undone strap of his dungarees.

“You—none of you can be here. I’m booked full. And—I’m closed. There’s a—wedding, local kid, you wouldn’t know them.”

“Well, we were shown up here,” Gabriel said as Crowley stalked around them, back to the hatch to the downstairs.

“By who?” Crowley demanded. All three of them fidgeted, exchanging glances.

“Greek lady,” Shadwell eventually said. “Spoke…Greek.”

“Very Greek,” Aziraphale nodded.

“Kinda happened so fast, you know,” Gabriel shrugged.

“Well. I’ll show you where the docks are, and you can find your own way off,” Crowley said, lifting the downstairs hatch.

“I’ve got a boat,” Shadwell said. Crowley frowned at him, then nodded.

“Good. Get on it, and don’t let me see your faces around here again.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, which made Crowley pause on his way down the ladder and look. Aziraphale had a small, warm smile on his face, the kind that had made Crowley’s entire being feel filled up with bubbles, once. Definitely not now. Definitely not. “It’s good to see you.”

Crowley barely managed a nod before sliding down the ladder, his ears ringing. He had to get these—these _interlopers_ out of here before Warlock saw them. What if it brought up bad memories of Warlock’s parents and he freaked out? Crowley had to prevent that at all costs. Warlock was stressed enough with the wedding as it was.

His feet carried him to the cantina, where Tracy and Agnes were seated as Beelzebub, the bartender, served them their usual too-strong cocktails.

“Have you seen Warlock?” Crowley demanded. Tracy and Agnes shook their heads and looked…concerned. Crowley ignored them and focused on Beelzebub, aware his chest was heaving and he was probably flushed, but ignoring that, too.

“I think he went down to the beach,” Beelzebub shrugged.

“Crowley? What’s wrong, love?” Tracy asked.

Crowley’s eyes prickled, his chest seized, and his face buckled. With horror, he realized what was about to happen, and he ran, as fast as he could towards the public bathrooms, locking himself inside a stall as the floodgates broke. Of course. Of _course_ this would happen to him. He hadn’t cried in years, not even when Aziraphale—well, not after the initial fight, but there had been times afterwards, when he had been so lonely and heartsick he hadn’t known what else to do with it all when he’d finally—and anyway, there had been the first time he had to say goodbye to Warlock, so soon after breaking all contact with Aziraphale—but even then, it had been dignified tears, not _this_. Disgusting.

He was aware of Tracy and Agnes outside of the stall door, trying to talk to him as he sobbed through the initial wave of overwhelmed tears, but paid them no mind until he saw Tracy’s face peeking at him over the stall door and Agnes’ from below, clearly playing footstool.

“Come on out, dear, we can make it right,” Tracy cooed.

“Or at least make someone pay,” Agnes said with a strained grin.

Crowley blew his nose, became aware of the voices of some of the locals helping set up the wedding in the courtyard outside the bathrooms, and forced the stall door open, stepping over Agnes and ignoring Tracy’s yelp as she clung to the door and was swung into the wall. Crowley slammed the main door of the bathroom shut and sat on the counter, a fresh wave overcoming him.

He became aware of Tracy and Agnes’ hands on him—one of them wiping his face with a wad of toilet paper, one of them tying back some of his hair, Tracy spritzing something floral down his shirt and fixing his dungaree strap, Agnes offering him some kind of herbal supplement that Tracy promptly stole and gulped down herself. Tracy let him blow his nose in some tissue, and Agnes forced nearly half of her cocktail down his throat, and once he recovered from that, Crowley felt strong enough to put words to his breakdown.

“Remember how I always said the summer before the Dowlings moved back to America was my last big summer of romance?” Crowley croaked, and he felt his friends’ nods from where they were bracketing him in their arms. “How…how it was the last time I ever saw Aziraphale, and it…sort of…wrecked me?”

“I remember,” Agnes said, steely-voiced.

“I…had a couple of rebounds, after he left when we had our big row,” Crowley sniffed. “One of them was with one of the guards, and the other was…well…it was the driver. Who’s also…sort of…Aziraphale’s cousin.”

“Crowley,” Tracy said, with a kind of hushed reverence. “Why’d you never tell us that part?”

“Because I’m not proud of it!” Crowley burst out. “And I never thought I’d have to say anything else about it, because I never, _ever_ thought I would see them again, let alone all three at once in my goathouse!”

“The goathouse, you say?” Agnes said, looking over Crowley’s head at Tracy.

“Yeah,” Crowley sniffed. He then yelped as Agnes and Tracy immediately took off out of the bathroom, running towards the goathouse-turned-garage. “Oi! What do you think you two are doing?”

He swore and chased behind them, yelling obscenities as Tracy cackled and Agnes determinedly climbed the ladder.

“It’s empty,” Agnes announced.

“What? It can’t be, they were just here,” Crowley cried, climbing up the other side of the ladder and poking his head up. No, Agnes was right, the goathouse loft was abandoned. He slid back down the ladder, trying to control his breathing.

“Relax, love, they’ve gone,” Tracy soothed as Agnes descended the ladder at a more sedate pace.

“I don’t know that,” Crowley snarled. “They could be anywhere.” He led them out of the goathouse and up towards his room, his hands twisting. “Why the devil are they even here? It’s like some hideous twist of fate!”

“Very Greek,” Agnes commented as they ascended the stairs back up to Crowley’s room and entered the door. “Drama does tend to follow you, does it not?”

“It hasn’t, though! I’ve kept my nose clean for fifteen years!” Crowley protested, throwing himself down in his vanity chair. “Bloody figures, though, doesn’t it, that right on the eve of the most important day of the life of the most important person to me, my mistakes come calling again to ruin everything.” Crowley knotted his fingers in his hair and pulled, growling. “If I hadn’t been such a reckless little _slut_ —”

“Woah, there, that’s far enough, duck,” Tracy scolded, gently but firmly loosening Crowley’s hands. Crowley looked miserably up into her face in the mirror, and Agnes joined Tracy behind him, not quite smiling but exuding calm in that way only Agnes could. Tracy stroked his curls back into place.

“Whatever happened to our Toni, hmm?” Agnes asked, pulling a feather boa from somewhere—Crowley must have left his costume trunk out, looking for jewelry for the wedding—and winding it around his neck.

“Confident and brash and the biggest tease there ever was, and you didn’t mind it a bit,” Tracy beamed, perching a ridiculous tricorn hat he had used a grand total of once in their time as the Dynamos on Crowley’s head. He turned, rolling his eyes as they laughed.

“I had to grow up,” he deadpanned.

“Best grow back down, again, then,” Agnes winked.

“How did that song go?” Tracy asked. “You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only…forty-something?”

“Ugh!” Crowley groaned, pushing through them and throwing himself on his bed, doffing the hat and burying his still-tender face in his blanket. He peeked an eye out to see Agnes sitting at the foot of his bed and Tracy leaning over the footboard, both of them still smiling at him.

“I remember a time when you started a conga line that stretched four blocks,” Tracy said. “Snake Hips Toni, they called you in that bar, remember?”

Crowley, despite himself, twitched a corner of his mouth.

“Left a trail of broken hearts behind, as I recall,” Agnes said, and winked. “Encouraged lots of young folk to do the same, chasing their own bliss.”

“Could have led a whole line dance down to the ocean and jumped in, and every one of ‘em would have followed,” Tracy said, reaching out and tugging the blanket further from Crowley’s face. “And you still could. Because you’re Toni of the Dynamos.”

“Lot of broken hips if I did that these days,” Crowley croaked, and smiled a little when Agnes snorted.

“The point is, love,” Agnes said, “you’re still our Crowley. And you can handle this. You have us, after all.”

Crowley reached out a hand, and both Agnes and Tracy reached back, tangling all three of their fingers together.

“Warlock can’t know they’re here,” he said.

“I doubt he’d mind,” Tracy frowned.

“He’d mind,” Crowley asserted. “Trust me, he’d mind. We just have to…make sure that whatever they’re here for, it doesn’t ruin the wedding. Alright?”

“Can do,” Agnes nodded.

“Great.” Crowley rubbed his face, then felt the feathers of the boa tickle his neck. That was familiar, right from their performing days. An idea started to form in his head. He twisted the end of a feather in his fingers, then looked up at Tracy and Agnes and grinned. “Say, listen to this…”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of pronoun-switching for Crowley here and a great heaping dollop of Adam and Warlock being disgustingly engaged and in love (with maybe a touch of emotional manipulation to misdirect some attention). Also some of that concerning behavior from Anathema rearing its head, and a very nervous Newt. Tally-ho!

It was by sheer dumb luck that Warlock found Pepper on her own.

“Pepper!” he hissed, grabbing her arm and hauling her around a corner, and Pepper yelped, juggling the vase she was carrying and almost dropping it as she was dragged.

“What?” Pepper snapped. “You almost made me drop this, and Crowley said—”

“Never mind what Crowley said,” Warlock interrupted. “They’re here, the three staff workers I told you about, and I think Nanny found them on accident.”

“Well. Buggered up before it even started,” Pepper sighed, transferring the vase to her hip. “What now?”

“Come with me,” Warlock demanded, and took off for the goathouse, talking over his shoulder as they ran. “Help me convince them to stay! And maybe see if you can figure out which one Nanny would be most likely to spend the rest of his life with!”

“You mean you didn’t know instantly?” Pepper panted, somehow deadpan even while running. “Astonishing. I can’t believe this well-thought-out plan is already falling apart around your ears.”

“Shut up!” Warlock wailed, and burst into the garage and scurried up the ladder. Just as he thought. Empty loft.

“They had a boat,” Warlock said, ignoring Pepper’s raised eyebrows and running past her. “Come on, they can’t have gotten far—”

As it turned out, they could; the dingy sailboat was already a good thirty feet out to sea by the time Warlock and Pepper ran to the docks.

“Bleeding buggering heck,” Warlock swore, and turned to Pepper. “Remember—don’t tell Adam, please, just—let me get this figured out, and then—something. Okay?”

“Warlock!” Pepper protested as Warlock took a running leap off of the dock, swimsuit cover-up and all, and jumped into the sea. It was warm, obviously, and Warlock was a pretty good swimmer by this point; catching up with the boat was no trouble, and it seemed his flailing and calling had attracted some attention.

“Master Warlock!” Brother Francis said severely as he and Gabriel hauled him up onto the deck. “What on earth are you thinking of!”

“You p-promised,” Warlock coughed as his panting sent seawater down the wrong way. “You promised you’d come to my wedding.”

“Your old nan had other ideas, laddie,” Shadwell barked from the wheel. Something white dropped over Warlock’s head.

“Dry off with that, I brought plenty,” Gabriel shrugged, and Warlock realized it was Gabriel’s shirt on his head—apparently the one he’d been wearing, as Warlock toweled off his hair and came face-to-face with a lounging shirtless middle-aged man in fantastic condition. Gabriel didn’t even seem to be preening or showing off, just sitting and taking in the sun and acting like the actually very nice shirt Warlock was using to dry himself off with didn’t mean anything.

“Thanks,” Warlock muttered, pretending his expensive upbringing didn’t clue him into the exact cost of the shirt he was holding and certainly not converting that spitballed amount into how much work he could get done in repairing the villa if he had it.

“He didn’t seem to want us around very much,” Brother Francis said, crossing his arms. “Not…that I blame him.”

“He’s just—he’s stressed, it’s his stress brain talking,” Warlock babbled. “Don’t take it personally, he’ll be way more chilled out by tomorrow and happier to see you guys. You just have to come. You can sleep on the boat, if you want to, the docking fees are discounted for wedding guests.”

“That’s very kind of you, Master Warlock,” Brother Francis sighed, “but—”

“Just Warlock, Brother Francis, I’m not a kid anymore,” Warlock said, and Brother Francis blinked. Then he smiled, and his eyes crinkled, and there he was, the old gardener Warlock had known, radiating sunshine and comfort from every pore.

“I suppose you aren’t,” Brother Francis said. “In that case…you needn’t feel like you must, but if you wanted to, you could call me Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale?”

“It’s my…well, my real name,” Brother Francis—Aziraphale—said with a demure little cough. “There were strange circumstances that brought me to your parents’ employ. I used my grandmother’s maiden name, when I worked there. And. The sideburns were…a bit of cover.”

“They totally worked,” Gabriel sighed, his face upturned, now looking more like a tourist taking in the rays. “I didn’t recognize you, at first, and we grew up together.”

“Adjacent,” Aziraphale said, a little acidic. “We grew up adjacent to one another.”

“Okay, that…you have to start at the beginning,” Warlock said, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I don’t get what’s happening here at all. Or why you left, that last summer.”

“I shall try,” Brother—Aziraphale said. Warlock noticed that Shadwell had stopped steering out towards the mainland, and now seemed to be making a circuit around the island instead. That was nice. “I suppose the first bit of business to take care of is that Gabriel here and I are cousins, strictly speaking.”

“Cousins?” Warlock frowned, looking between Aziraphale’s modest librarian exterior, albeit with rolled-up sleeves and a loosened bowtie, and Gabriel’s very expensive haircut and veneers.

“Same grandparents,” Gabriel said, without opening his eyes.

“Is Shadwell a relative, too?” Warlock asked.

“Nae,” Shadwell said, with such disgust it made Warlock smile. “You’ll nae catch me with a ponce and a pansy for relatives.”

“Be that as it may,” Aziraphale grimaced, “we grew up…something like two branches of the same family. Gabriel’s branch settled in New York and had all the money, and mine was in London and had the bookshop. Growing up in London was how I met your nanny, all the way back when we were…ten, I think?”

“Nanny never mentioned any childhood friends,” Warlock frowned. Aziraphale winced, fiddling with his pinky ring. “What happened?”

“Oh, the usual,” Aziraphale said with a strained smile. “We were best friends, he and I, though my parents hardly approved, and his…well.”

“Weren’t around,” Warlock supplied.

“That’s generous,” Aziraphale muttered, then shook his head. “What happened between us is…just what happens with close friends, sometimes, when adulthood intrudes. I had my responsibilities, and Crowley…” Aziraphale shook his head again. “I was working for your parents, Warlock, under a different name, because I was doing my best to duck out of my responsibilities. Your nanny was doing something similar, going by Ashtoreth so her singing career and her nanny job wouldn’t overlap.”

“I can’t believe Nanny used a stage name for the job that didn’t have a stage,” Warlock said, and was somewhat gratified to hear the barking laughter out of Shadwell and the snort of amusement from Gabriel. Aziraphale smiled that rainbows-and-kittens smile again, steeped in deep affection.

“At least I never lied when I worked for your folks,” Gabriel said, sitting up. “Mine was straightforward: my mom cut me off for a summer and made me get a job in London to learn some personal responsibility. Driver was the only position available that I had any kind of experience with, so I took it.”

“No ulterior motives for me, thank ye,” Shadwell said from the wheel. “Rent had to be paid even then.”

“What I want to know,” Gabriel said, leaning in a little and making Warlock’s uneasiness grow, “is why your parents aren’t coming to your wedding.”

Warlock wanted to snarl at him that it was none of his business, but then, Gabriel wouldn’t even be out here in Greece if Warlock hadn’t invited him. He supposed he owed them a little bit of an explanation on that front.

“We’re estranged,” Warlock said shortly. “They don’t know I’m getting married and they wouldn’t like Adam anyway.” He scrubbed back his wet hair, drying coarse and salty. He was going to get sun bleaching if he wasn’t careful. “After that summer you all worked for us, my dad moved us back to the States. Nanny somehow wound up in Greece and invited my parents to send me to her for the summers, and one summer, I just…didn’t go back. My parents didn’t even argue, they just wrote Nanny a check like it was a business transaction. I finished high school early doing homeschooling, and I’ve been helping Nanny take care of the villa ever since.”

“How did you meet Adam?” Aziraphale asked, swiftly interjecting as Gabriel opened his mouth. “That’s his name, isn’t it? Adam?”

“Oh, a couple months abroad,” Warlock grinned, leaning back against the deck. “Nanny insisted. And then I came home from Paris with a boyfriend instead of souvenirs.”

“Why didn’t your parents fight for you?” Gabriel demanded. Warlock hunched his shoulders before he’d even realized he was doing it. “That’s what parents are supposed to do, guide you to the best decisions and support you.”

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale hissed, and Warlock surprised himself by putting his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“It’s fine,” he heard himself say. “My dad didn’t understand that I wasn’t a manly man and my mom hated that I didn’t care about the things she cared about. Getting me out of the house early was probably a godsend for them. Nobody wants a kid who’s nothing like what they expected.”

Warlock chanced a look at Gabriel, expecting to see confusion or disdain or any other number of emotions he was used to seeing on his dad’s face (or had been, in adolescence). There was definite confusion, yes, but it resolved into a shrug.

“Their own fault for not working with what they were given,” Gabriel said. “If something’s different from how you expected, you adapt your strategy and pursue new directions. That’s just good business.”

Warlock blinked. Had Gabriel…said something actually kind of nice and supportive? Aziraphale and Shadwell both were looking at Gabriel like he’d grown another head.

“Yes…well,” Aziraphale coughed. “For what it’s worth, Warlock, your parents are missing out. Greatly. You are a valuable and wonderful young person just as you are.”

“Always thought your da was a blockhead numpty,” Shadwell announced, and that, of all the things, was what made Warlock burst into half laughter, half tears.

“He is,” Warlock choked, wiping at his face with salty hands and oh, that was a bad idea. He felt a soft handkerchief dart around his hands and dab at his face, and of _course_ Aziraphale had a handkerchief, and a warm smile handy when Warlock blinked at him and sniffed.

The afternoon drew on as Shadwell circled the island at a leisurely pace, and as Warlock talked with all three of them, he quietly added points to his list of traits as to why each person could possibly be a good fit for Nanny:

For Shadwell, he was surprisingly not joking at all about the witchfinder thing, which would put him on the outs with Aunties Agnes and Tracy, but he seemed loyal, which Nanny certainly needed more of around. Plus, he had a boat to get to and from the mainland, which was useful.

For Gabriel, he was arrogant and obtuse, but he was handsome, and rich, and if not generous then at least he was ignorant of how much things actually cost, and that could be something Nanny could work with, Warlock was certain.

For Aziraphale, he kept making weird, sad faces whenever Nanny was mentioned, but he was affectionate and kind and had one or two things to say about Warlock’s proposed wedding menu and wine list, and Nanny had been looking for a food and beverage consultant for the villa.

They were passing by the beach near the docks when Warlock heard his name, bellowed at the top of a set of very insistent and familiar lungs, and when he looked out, he saw Adam’s lithe golden form jumping up and down on the shore, waving his arms.

“I have to go,” Warlock said, and turned around. “You—you all promise you’re still coming tomorrow?”

“I give my word, Warlock,” Aziraphale nodded.

“Sure, sounds fun,” Gabriel agreed.

“Aye,” Shadwell grunted.

Warlock flashed a smile, then jumped off the boat, swimming for shore. Adam splashed into the shallows and helped pull him upright, walking him up onto the beach, throwing an arm around Warlock’s shoulders and entangling their hands.

“No one’s seen you all afternoon, Crowley’s going spare,” Adam said.

“Sorry, lost track of time,” Warlock replied, honestly. “I’ll go see what he needs right—” He squeaked as he went to walk away and Adam’s hand, still tangled in his, caught tight and pulled Warlock back. Adam wiggled his eyebrows at him with twinkling eyes as Warlock rolled his own.

“So who were those blokes?” Adam asked lightly. A lance of panic shot through Warlock before he forcibly calmed himself. Nobody but Pepper knew the whole story and he could count on her silence.

“What blokes?” It was a cheap tactic, but Warlock freed his hand and wrapped his arms around his fiancé’s neck as Adam drew him in, warm hands on his hips. Adam kissed the tip of Warlock’s nose and grinned, a slow and easy thing that had a hint of predatory possessiveness. Just a hint. Enough to make Warlock’s heart race.

“Fine, keep your secrets,” Adam teased. “You’ll tell me eventually.”

“Will not,” Warlock retorted. “I’m a vault, can’t get into me for love or money.”

“Hmm.” Adam seemed to consider this, then leaned into Warlock’s space, stopping just shy of their lips touching, his entire sunbeam heat radiating into Warlock’s skin and Warlock would _not_ be driven wild by this, he was a bride with _standards_ and could handle some teasing. Adam’s hands moved, one pressing on his lower back, the other searching higher for the scoop of bare skin exposed by Warlock’s cover-up.

“It’s mad, how you make me feel,” Adam murmured. “I’m not a jealous person. I just don’t wanna share you.”

“I’m not in a mood to be shared,” Warlock managed to gasp as Adam’s hot fingers soothed up and down his spine. “I am a grown adult, not a—a toy, or a—a—”

Adam hummed again and stole the softest tease of a kiss. Warlock groaned, not wanting to be the first one to break but by any god that was listening if Adam didn’t kiss him properly right this second—

“Oi! Adam!”

“Adam!”

Warlock and Adam both sighed as the Them’s voices rang out from behind, Adam resting his forehead on Warlock’s.

“Well, looks like it’s a draw,” Warlock said, and smiled very smugly indeed when Adam growled and kissed him so hard it bore them both to the sand.

“You’re a minx,” Adam informed him between searing kisses as the Them’s cackling grew louder.

“Not the one playing stupid games just now,” Warlock replied, and then laughed as Adam was bodily lifted from off the top of him and carried away, wriggling and swearing, by Brian and Wensleydale.

“Sorry, stag do time,” Brian said cheerfully.

“We’ll be back for your bachelor thingy later tonight,” Pepper said, flashing Warlock a grin.

“Just bring him back in one piece, we’re getting married tomorrow,” Warlock said, and smiled as Adam got control of one of his arms and used it to blow kisses at him.

“I love you!” Adam called, and Warlock waved and caught the kisses as Adam was bullied onto a jet ski and the four of them rocketed away. Warlock sighed. Adam Young was the only person in the entire world who could get sand all down Warlock’s back without retribution. Walking a little duck-footed as he moved his clothes around to try and coax some sand out, he made his way back up to the villa. There was still some time before his bachelor party with some of the locals, plenty of time to finish the centerpieces and get some light strings up before the sun went down. And maybe shower off.

Crowley was nowhere to be found, but Newton Pulsifer was, and sitting next to him at the crafting table was Anathema, who looked up at Warlock and gave a brief smile.

“Hey,” he greeted, sitting himself down and picking up one of the unfinished flower arrangements. As suspected, there were only a few more left.

“Hi,” Newt squeaked, and Warlock looked up at him, frowning. That was more nervous than Newt had sounded in a long time. Newt gave him a nauseous smile and forced his eyes back down to what he was working on. Warlock stared at him for a few minutes, then noticed as Newt’s eyes kept darting over to Anathema. Come to think of it…

“Where’s Agnes?” Warlock asked.

“Probably with the rest of the Dynamos,” Anathema said, perfectly serene. Warlock looked back at Newt, then shrugged and got back to work on his current flower arrangement. There was a weird tension at this table he couldn’t really get his brain around, but figured it didn’t much concern him anyway.

At some point, Newt stood and walked away to the bathrooms, and then Warlock found himself with a grabbed wrist and on the receiving end of one of Anathema’s most forceful, soul-searching stares of all time. Warlock gulped.

“You know Newton, right?” Anathema asked. “Why do you think my grandmother likes him for me?”

Warlock blinked, then shook his head, sure he still had seawater in his ears. “What?”

“When we first saw him, my grandmother said to mark him, and that I could do worse than a guy like him,” Anathema said. “What do you think she meant by that? What does she see about Newton Pulsifer that I don’t?”

“I mean…that there are worse guys out there than him?” Warlock tried. “He’s—not a bad guy, at all, but he’s…I dunno, not your type, I guess? Why are you so worried about this?”

“What’s my type, do you think?” Anathema demanded. When Warlock gaped, Anathema’s mouth tightened. “My Grandma Agnes can see the future and can read people’s auras better than any other person alive, even me. She seems to think Newt and I are made for each other. I just can’t figure out _why_.”

“I don’t think that’s what she meant,” Warlock managed, but by then Newt was walking back, and Anathema retreated to her side of the table, placid again. Poor sod, Warlock thought as Newt gingerly sat back in his chair, once again glancing at Anathema the way most people glanced at a very large, toothsome cat in their vicinity.

Well. Newt would just have to sort it out on his own. Warlock had his own problems to deal with.

.

“I can’t believe we remembered all those steps still,” Crowley said for the fourth time in less than an hour, shaking the excess energy from his limbs as he styled his hair.

“I can’t believe you really expect us to squeeze back into these jumpsuits and platforms,” Agnes deadpanned, still sitting on Crowley’s bed. The sun was more or less down, and already down in the courtyard Crowley could hear the revelry from Warlock’s bachelor party starting to pick up some steam.

“Just takes time and patience,” Tracy panted from where she had her jumpsuit halfway on. “Maybe some talcum powder.”

“Yours is the easy one anyway, Agnes, it’s all spandex,” Crowley scoffed.

“Not my fault I couldn’t talk you two into something more sensible than pleather,” Agnes said, with ever so slight a smirk.

The idea to perform one of their old numbers for Warlock’s bachelor party was a spur of the moment decision that had done the job Crowley needed it to, which was to occupy his time and keep his mind off of the surreal bombshell his afternoon had been. Seeing Shadwell and Gabriel was…well, not great, but manageable. There had been no messy breakup to speak of on that front, just Crowley dropping them like hot potatoes when they failed to distract from the pulsing, aching crack in her chest. Summer flings, nothing more.

Aziraphale, though.

Very few things but time and running a business and raising a teenager could distract from over a decade of disappointed hopes exploding in his face. Crowley had always known that Aziraphale’s family was controlling, and that they would do just about anything to get him away from Crowley and stuffed into a box of their own liking, but Crowley had managed to delude himself into thinking Aziraphale had wanted out of the box, to the point where, when Nanny Ashtoreth met Brother Francis, a blaze of hope had burst to life in her chest, and a million fantasies of the life they’d have together one day were reborn and recast, feeling so tantalizing and close and real.

So to have Aziraphale tell her that he had a fiancée that his parents had picked out for him and that he was going to go home to, in his own words, “take care of her”…it shattered. It utterly shattered every piece of Crowley’s heart. Crowley still cut himself on the shards now and then, where the sands of time hadn’t worn the edges down. The last thing he ever wanted was to come face-to-face with Aziraphale again, and certainly not by surprise, with him in his dungarees and dirty shoes and his hair a mess and having just fallen from the roof.

“Crowley! Earth to Crowley!”

“What?” Crowley forcibly dragged himself back out of his mind. Agnes and Tracy were both staring at him, Tracy finally in her jumpsuit, though the back was open and unlikely to close anytime soon, thanks to the broken zipper.

“Safety pins,” Agnes said, with the air of someone who had repeated herself more than twice.

“Right,” Crowley said, and shook himself. “Right.” He dug through the costume trunk and came away with a box of them, passing them off and staring down at his own suit. It was more spangly than the other two—obviously—and came with lovely sleeve pieces that were fun to swing around, once he got going at a certain point in the song.

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright, love?” Tracy asked, somewhat breathily as Agnes squeezed the jumpsuit together over her ribs.

“I have to be,” Crowley said grimly, and began to step into his jumpsuit.

“That’s not the same thing as you actually being alright,” Agnes said through gritted teeth. “Almost there, Tracy, keep sucking in—”

“Close enough!” Crowley declared, and pulled the jumpsuit up over his arms. To his surprise, other than some tightness across the gut, it still fit fine. He turned around to ask if Agnes would zip him up, just in time to catch the concerned look Agnes and Tracy were exchanging. “Honestly, I’m fine. Let’s get the show on the road, yeah? Just get through tonight, and then tomorrow…I don’t know about tomorrow. One thing at a time.”

“Fair enough,” Agnes said, and straightened Tracy’s jumpsuit. “Well, Trace, you can’t sit or it’ll burst open, but lock your knees and balance on the platforms and it’ll be just like twenty years ago, eh?”

“If I had any cartilage left in them, maybe,” Tracy gasped, half-laughing. “Did the makeup hold up alright?”

“Looks perfect,” Crowley soothed as Agnes zipped him up. He missed this, too, the getting ready, the pre-show jitters. He had half a mind to propose they go on tour again. They weren’t all that old, it would be fun, getting to perform again with the Dynamos.

Then he tried to walk down the stairs in his platforms, nearly fell, and burst out laughing at himself.

“Take care, Toni, can’t have the nanny of the bride taking a tumble the night before the wedding,” Tracy cautioned from where she was inching down the stairs at a snail’s pace, clinging to the rail with all her might.

“No, heaven forfend Crowley avoid being tumbled,” Agnes said. Crowley whipped around and squinted at her, and her small self-satisfied smile, and threw her a rude gesture.

“Bloody witches,” Crowley muttered to himself.

They made it all the way to the lobby, lined up behind the frosted glass double doors to the courtyard that they would be making their entrance into the party from, and waited for Newt to give them their mikes and the signal that he was set up with their stereo and cassette tape. He gave them their mikes, then the signal, and Crowley took a deep breath.

“For one night!” Crowley yelled through the door.

“And one night only!” Tracy shouted, and coughed.

“Because that’s all we have breath for,” Agnes said, and beamed at both the laughter on the other side of the door and Tracy and Crowley’s dirty looks.

“Speak for yourself, you old bat,” Crowley muttered back, and cleared his throat. “The world’s first occult power band!” Cheers erupted from the other side of the door.

“Please welcome,” Tracy said, and she and Agnes both grasped a door handle.

“Toni and the Dynamos!” Agnes roared, and she and Tracy pulled the doors open. Crowley took point, falling into the steps as naturally as breathing as he and Tracy and Agnes walked out onto the small stage they had set up for this singular performance. Crowley’s eyes darted until he finally saw Warlock, wearing a black romper and black eyeliner and cheering as loudly as the rest of the local kids around him. Anathema was clapping, and Crowley didn’t see the Them, but figured they were probably still with Adam doing some weird ritual on a sandbar somewhere. He tossed back his hair, lifted the microphone to his lips, and stomped his platform to begin the count—one—two—three—


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for major anxiety and a massive panic attack this chapter. Also the "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)" sequence, which involves a lot of touching without gaining prior consent, but the person dragged into it, while initially unsure, is totally fine with it once they have a moment to process it and decide they like it (is that dubcon? Not sure). Also a host of avoidant behaviors, and lots of alcohol consumption. It's a party chapter, y'all!

Music and cheers rang out into the warm sultry night.

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, letting the familiar notes wash over him as he and the other two former Dowling employees climbed the stairs to the courtyard, where the noise was coming from. “Our song.”

“Nah,” Gabriel shook his head. “She played it for me once during a car ride, it’s definitely my song.”

“Sang it for me, as well, lads, I think you’ll find it’s mine,” Shadwell grumbled as they crested the top of the stairs and saw the gathering of twenty-somethings cheering for Crowley, Tracy, and Agnes as they pranced around on a tiny stage. Aziraphale flushed. He hadn’t seen Crowley in that particular outfit in…well, obviously a long time, but even before the Dowlings. He looked beautiful in blue, bangles glittering in the fairy lights and platform heels only tripping a little when Crowley happened to catch Aziraphale’s eye. Agnes straightened him up quickly enough and shot Aziraphale a warning look, which Aziraphale blushed and took to heart, instead looking out into what was certainly Warlock’s nuptial celebration. There was the young master himself, hair pulled back, smiling and clapping along with the music. Aziraphale chanced a look back at Crowley, who was gazing at Warlock with maybe a smidge more determination than before, but was singing his heart out and grinning. Aziraphale’s heart thumped.

“No,” Aziraphale said gently, “it’s none of ours, not anymore.”

They stayed until the end of the song, at which point Agnes marched over to them and gave Aziraphale in particular a stink-eye that sent a chill down his spine.

“You’d do best to bugger off,” Agnes told them frankly. “Tracy and I will be along to fetch you in the morning. If you’re here, you might as well help.”

“Help?” Gabriel complained, and it was all Aziraphale could do to stop from elbowing him in the gut. Agnes fixed him with a beady eye and smiled, and it was unpleasant.

“Help,” she said, and nodded. “Now go away.”

Aziraphale, after glancing back over at Crowley to find him talking to Warlock and wrapping him up in his arms, didn’t need to be told a third time.

However, Aziraphale did have some questions; he could wait until Warlock came to find him. Given the looks the boy was shooting his way, it wouldn’t be long.

“Well, lads, I’m off to the bar,” Shadwell announced, and began making his way to the tiny cantina tucked into the courtyard.

“I’ll join you,” Gabriel said, and Aziraphale went the opposite direction, to a deserted patio overlooking the sea. This would more than do.

Warlock scurried towards him soon enough, looking pink-cheeked and flustered, rubbing at his eyes.

“I think I ought to explain to Crowley that I come in peace,” Aziraphale said, fidgeting his hands.

“No, you shouldn’t,” Warlock said quickly. “Or. Um. Wait until Nanny has a few drinks in him first.”

“That may be wise,” Aziraphale smiled. Then his smile fell. “Warlock, what am I doing here? Why did you invite your old gardener when the last time I saw you, you were all of five? Especially when it’s clear your nanny doesn’t actually want me here at all?”

“No, he does, he totally does,” Warlock stammered, and Aziraphale gave him a look. Warlock closed his mouth.

“I believe I taught you better than that, young man,” Aziraphale said gently. “And if I didn’t teach you to tell the truth, your nanny certainly taught you to lie better. What’s this really about?”

Warlock crossed his arms, then leaned against the wall of the patio. He said nothing for a while. Then he took a deep breath, and said, “Why did you take a job with my parents?”

“Pardon?” Aziraphale blinked.

“If you were avoiding your own folks, you could have gone anywhere,” Warlock said, looking at him with an intent stare, “but you picked the place where Nanny was working. Why?”

Aziraphale fidgeted. “I. Well. You see. It had—benefits?”

“Now who’s a bad liar?” Warlock quirked one side of his mouth, and Aziraphale chuckled despite himself.

“Quite right, too,” he sighed. “I think you know how I felt about your nanny, Warlock, especially given who else you invited on this trip.” Aziraphale felt a flash of irritation for it, but best not let it show. “So let me answer your question with my original question: why am I really here? What were you looking to gain from this?”

Warlock was clearly chewing on the inside of his cheek in the ensuing silence, and Aziraphale was content to let the silence stretch for a bit. Eventually, Aziraphale sighed.

“Change of topic,” he said. “Why did your nanny have to insist on you taking a few months abroad once you finished your schooling?”

“What?” Warlock looked at him blankly.

“Any young person, especially one with as fraught a parental situation as yours, would be chomping at the bit to leave home and explore the world,” Aziraphale said, thumbing at the bottom of his waistcoat. “But your wording implied you had to be forced.”

“It…well, Nanny can’t run the hotel by herself, can he?” Warlock shrugged, his shoulders rising around his ears. “I have to help him.”

“Why you? Why not someone else?” Aziraphale asked.

“There is no one else! There’s just me!” Warlock snapped. “And now me and Adam.”

“But surely you’d like to see the world, at least some of it,” Aziraphale said. “Is it possible, perhaps, that that’s part of why you set up this elaborate scheme with Shadwell and Gabriel and I? The fact that Crowley would be left alone here, if you left?”

“I…” Warlock hesitated, and then a window above slammed open, Crowley’s irate voice floating out on the wind. The words, however, were indistinct, and when Aziraphale looked back at Warlock, he had vanished.

Bother, Aziraphale thought, and went to find the cantina, as well.

.

Song done, Crowley and Tracy and Agnes gave deep bows, and once Crowley had made sure to press his affection into a weepy Warlock’s hair and face, he grabbed a passing shot, downed it all, and began to stalk up the stairs in his platform heels, the other two scurrying behind.

“Why are they here, then?” he growled, his pinched toes screaming at him. “If not to ruin Warlock’s wedding, why?”

“I thought you weren’t too keen on this wedding,” Agnes said behind him.

“Doesn’t mean I want them spoiling it for Warlock!” Crowley snarled. “They weren’t even part of the staff that took care of him at the Dowling estate, so why are they here? What have they ever done for him, eh?”

“Crowley, he was a child, love, I don’t think non-family is allowed to check in on children with any regularity if they aren’t paid to,” Tracy said gently.

“Never stopped me, did it?” Crowley scoffed as they tottered their way back to his room, near the top of the villa. “I raised him all on my own, without help from those two idiots who birthed him and certainly without any other extraneous—stupid—stupid staff!” An idea seized him, and he snarled. “I bet Warlock’s good-for-nothing parents put those three morons up to this—paid ‘em off.”

“Crowley, you said Warlock hadn’t even told them—”

“They could’ve found out!” Crowley seethed. They burst into Crowley’s room, which was too hot for three spandex-and-pleather-clad middle-aged performers, and Crowley forced open a window, at the moment not even caring if the whole window frame fell out of the building this time. “I won’t have the rug pulled out from me by those neglectful—horrible—horrible people whose only good deed was making the best kid in the world! Their cronies aren’t going to ruin this, not if I have any say!”

“Oof,” Agnes wheezed, falling onto the bed. “Dancing makes my feet swell, these days. Some help getting these boots off, please, ladies.”

Crowley took his position on one boot, Tracy on the other, and both began to heave with all their might as Agnes held onto the headboard for dear life. Crowley found he still had some steam built up, but Tracy began to speak before he could.

“We’ll just have to wrangle the truth out of them,” she gasped, tugging on the boot as hard as she could. “Agnes and I’ll get them good and pickled tonight, and then early tomorrow we can go fishing—”

“Fishing! Oh, aye, that’ll loosen their tongues,” Agnes groaned.

“Well, what else do you suggest we do with three men?” Tracy asked, then shrieked as both boots suddenly loosened, and she and Crowley were sent tumbling to the floor as Agnes gave a loud sigh of relief.

“That takes me back,” Crowley wheezed, and giggled, only to be swatted by Agnes throwing her headband at him.

“It’s a good plan,” Agnes said around deep breaths. “Keep them occupied while you finish wedding preparations.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Crowley said, and sighed. “Alright. Someone unzip me, there’s still partying to do tonight and I’d rather it not get out of hand.”

“Now that’s a first,” Tracy grinned, and only laughed when Crowley half-heartedly stuck his tongue out at her.

.

Gabriel Herald was a man of means, and men of means often have plenty of time to stare at themselves in the mirror and conclude that yeah, they were one good-looking S.O.B., weren’t they? (And if they didn’t, they should start, because Gabriel had found it enormously confidence-boosting to do so.)

Greece agreed with him, Gabriel decided, from his unbuttoned collar and rolled-up sleeves to his swim shorts and flip-flops. He hadn’t been so dressed-down in years, not even during the time he’d been working as a driver for the Dowlings that one summer his mother had cut him off to teach him something about responsibility. Gabriel had learned responsibility, alright. And what a person looked like when they were attracted to him and wanted to make out until his lips were sore (and then never call him again, but Gabriel contented himself on that point with knowing a nanny was kinda below him anyway).

He wasn’t sure what to make of the look the cantina bartender was giving him.

They were short, dark-haired with shocking pale eyes, and if Gabriel had to put a name to the expression, he thought it was somewhere between murder and hunger. So. Maybe indigestion? They certainly weren’t looking at the other two guys at the cantina like that—Sergeant Shadwell was on a witch-related rant, and the skinny glasses guy whose name Gabriel didn’t really care about nodded along every so often. No, that indigestion glare was just for Gabriel, and he couldn’t figure out what it meant at all.

“Another one over here,” Gabriel said, indicating his glass. If they were going to stare, they might a well make themself useful. Besides, he’d only had one whiskey neat, and his own experience told him that he could handle at least one more of these before driving became a problem. But he wasn’t driving, so it was fine.

The bartender only took their eyes off him to reach for the whiskey bottle and pour him out a few fingers. They hovered the glass over the bar top, icemelt eyes looking him over from chest to face.

“I’m Beelzebub,” the bartender said, and set down his glass.

“Gabriel,” answered Gabriel, and he raised his glass to them in salute. “Thanks for this.”

“It’szz my job,” Beelzebub droned. “What are you here for?”

“Oh, the wedding,” Gabriel said. He leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m on an adventure.”

“An adventure,” Beelzebub repeated, lifting an eyebrow. “To what end?”

“I dunno,” Gabriel shrugged, “just an adventure. Something different and exciting.”

“Hmm.” Beelzebub stared at him for another few seconds, then leaned around Gabriel and made some sort of gesture or finger-snapping motion. The poppy dance music turned to something a little more bass-heavy, and Beelzebub smiled at him with eyeteeth on display. Gabriel, despite the rabbit-like quivering in his chest all of a sudden, smiled back. “Oi! You lot want to have some fun?”

The crowd of hyped-up twenty-somethings cheered behind Gabriel, and before he knew it, there were hands on him—hands pushing open his shirt, hands pulling him from his chair, hands caressing and leading him along. And all throughout, Beelzebub kept their eyes on him, leader of the pack, and Gabriel was perhaps not the most sensitive man, but he was certain he was picking up on a vibe, at least. Sometime in the whirl of activity Gabriel found himself with his hands tied behind his back and leaning against a closed outdoor umbrella, his heart pounding but not necessarily in a bad way, as a new, small set of hands from behind him slid down his cheeks, along the sides of his neck, across his chest.

“You and me, we’re going to get to know each other,” Beelzebub whispered in his ear, and Gabriel shivered and grinned. Adventure, right?

.

Warlock wasn’t exactly expecting to see Gabriel tied to a pole by a bunch of handsy young adults when he escaped the conversation with Aziraphale, but Gabriel didn’t seem truly distressed by the attention, and Beelzebub was there, standing on a chair behind Gabriel with their arms around his neck, so it was probably fine. Warlock shook his head, skirting the action to go sit by Newt, who looked like he was still being held captive by polite convention in conversation with Shadwell.

“—and that’s why ye can never trust American tea,” Shadwell was saying darkly. “Ices and sugars and infusions and garnishes—bah!”

Newt gave a strained smile, and turned wide eyes on Warlock, silently pleading for help. Warlock scooped up a beer from the other side of the counter, cracked it open, and shrugged.

“It’s alright,” Warlock said, leaning into his accent just to watch Shadwell glare at him. “If you make it right, anyway.”

“Sweet iced tea is an abomination ‘fore God and the work of devilry!” Shadwell bellowed, sloshing his drink out of his glass and onto the bartop. Normally Beelzebub would be all over it, but a glance over Warlock’s shoulder told him that Beelzebub was…preoccupied. He wasn’t sure when Gabriel had been moved from the pole to the table, but more power to them if they wanted to lick vodka off of Gabriel’s abs.

“Newt,” someone said, and Warlock turned the other way to see Newt’s arm get seized by Anathema. “Come dance with me.”

“Oh, I don’t—woah!” Newt yelped as he was yanked off his barstool and dragged into the fray. Warlock snorted. Shadwell sighed.

“Another brave young soldier lost in the fight against witches,” Shadwell lamented, and sipped his drink. “No valiant footmen against evil left, in this degenerate age.”

“Mm,” Warlock grunted.

“Say, young Warlock,” Shadwell said, “if your mutton-headed father’s nae coming…who’s doing the honors and giving ye away?”

Warlock’s throat abruptly closed.

“No one,” he coughed, before his brain could catch up.

“Hmm,” Shadwell said, and drained whatever watered-down dregs were left in his glass. “That’ll never do. A private’s commanding officer should step up, should the private’s next of kin be unavailable. I’ll do it, laddie. Our secret ‘till then.”

“O-oh,” Warlock said. Shadwell clapped him on the back, gave him a pained smile and nod, and shuffled off. Warlock’s ears were ringing. What just happened?

Warlock saw a flash of pale curls in the corner of his eye, and immediately jumped up to be anywhere else. Oh, look, a convenient mosh pit. Time to go lose himself.

Only, it turned out, as Warlock began insinuating himself into the crowd that had gathered and commandeered the boom box, that ran him straight into Gabriel, still open-shirted and vaguely sticky and smelling like salt and lime.

“Hey!” Gabriel hooted, putting his hands on Warlock’s shoulders, probably to try and steady him, but Gabriel himself wasn’t all that steady, so it wound up as more a rocking motion. “Kiddo! Watch it, don’t wanna lose an eye!”

“Eurgh,” Warlock gargled, determinedly not looking at Gabriel’s chest. “Sorry, I—”

“I was looking for you, actually,” Gabriel yelled, leaning in. There was a wild light in his violet eyes that Warlock had never seen before, but, then, he didn’t know Gabriel that well. But even the kind of persona Gabriel projected didn’t seem like the type to be a party animal. “I wanted to thank you for inviting me out here, it’s been a wild adventure! I’m learning all kinds of things about myself.” Gabriel laughed, and slapped Warlock’s back hard. “I know your dad’s not coming, so I’m gonna give you away tomorrow! My treat!”

“What?” Warlock yelped.

“Don’t tell anyone, okay, it’ll be our surprise!” Gabriel hooted, and ruffled Warlock’s hair. “Beez! Hey, Beez! Check this out!” With that, Gabriel let Warlock go and gyrated away, leaving Warlock standing stunned in the crowd.

Too many people, suddenly. Warlock needed some air.

Unfortunately for him, because the universe hated Warlock Dowling, when Warlock finally struggled out of the close press of bodies, he stumbled right into Aziraphale, making him spill the cocktail he was holding.

“I say!” Aziraphale yelped. “Have a care, you—oh! Warlock!”

“Brother Francis,” Warlock squeaked, out of habit more than anything.

“Dear boy, I just had a thought,” Aziraphale said, and Warlock’s panicked mind begged for him not to say what Warlock was afraid he was about to say. Aziraphale’s cheeks were rosier than normal, his eyes sparkling. “Your nanny has already done so much, and it would be a capital idea to maybe take something off his plate. I’m sure you’ve thought of this already, but—how would it be, if I gave you away tomorrow?”

Warlock stared numbly. Aziraphale smiled and patted him on the back, right where two other fools had hit him within the past hour with the same idea.

“Jolly good,” Aziraphale beamed. “Mum’s the word until the wedding!”

“Right,” Warlock said, and turned around to find a trash can. He was going to be sick.

The music changed, and there was a crowing up on the roofs. Warlock’s head snapped up, and he saw Adam and the Them, each perched on a rooftop or a high window, each wearing a silly mask. Warlock had no idea what Adam was thinking, but looking at Adam’s rakish smile, Warlock knew that if he were in any other mood but panicked, he would be excited for it. As it was, Warlock’s breath was starting to thicken in his lungs from the combination of the two.

Adam and his friends slid down the buildings on ropes, all four of them obviously beelining for Warlock, and he tried for a smile that probably went manic by the time Brian caught up to him first, hoisting him up by the legs.

“Hey!” Warlock yelped, tottering, only to grasp Wensleydale’s shoulder for support. “What are you—”

“Just go with it!” Pepper grinned, on Brian’s other side. “We caught him, Adam!”

“Excellent,” Adam purred, slinking as if he had Nanny’s hips for the night. Warlock, despite it all, felt a wave of exasperated affection. Adam and his games, he thought, what part of his brain could think that wasn’t occupied by either screaming about his impending wedding disaster, or whining to get his hands on Adam immediately. Adam had a mask on like a horned devil, and he pushed it up on his head when he got close enough and winked. “The Demon King is pleased with this choice of bride. Well done, minions.”

“Demon King?” Warlock raised an eyebrow. “Please. We both know that between us, I’m more likely to be the King of Hell.” He kicked a little. “Brian, put me down.”

“Yup,” Brian groaned, and set Warlock down on the courtyard again, rotating his shoulder. “Next time, Wensley does the lifting.”

“What next time? We’re only getting married the once,” Warlock snorted, and then yelped when Adam pulled him in, planting kisses up his arm. “Isn’t this—bad luck, or something?”

“It’s fine, it’s not like you’re wearing your wedding dress right now,” Adam reasoned, between kisses that were trailing up Warlock’s shoulder and to his throat, dipping Warlock slightly to get at it. Warlock moaned, just a little, looking upside-down at Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale and waggling his eyebrows at them.

“Well done, you caught him. I’m getting a drink,” Pepper retched, and Warlock might have lost a little bit of time as Adam bit lightly at his collarbones, but when he surfaced again, all three of them were gone. Warlock briefly wished that another certain set of three would disappear on command like that.

“Alright?” Adam panted against Warlock’s ear. “You look a bit peaky.”

“I’m fine,” Warlock nodded. Adam drew back and frowned at him, his eyes searching and focused. Warlock leaned in and kissed him properly, threading his fingers in Adam’s curls and nipping at Adam’s lip, being as distracting as he knew how to be.

“Oi! Lovebirds!” There was a hand on Warlock’s shoulder, and he was unceremoniously unstuck from Adam’s face as Nanny, changed from his jumpsuit to a floaty blouse and shorts, grinned impishly at him. “Save it for tomorrow, yeah? You’ve got a whole party out here to try and de-escalate.”

“Give over, Crowley, it’s a bacchanal!” Auntie Tracy, over Nanny’s shoulder, shimmied, and the glittering shawl she was wearing over a rather nice dress sparkled. “I think I see just the target for me, in fact.”

“Tracy—Tracy, that’s Shadwell, don’t—Tracy!” Nanny hissed as Tracy danced away, and Warlock briefly thought his entire body went numb. Nanny looked furious, before pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. He looked back at Warlock and Adam with a grin, which bowed to a concerned frown. “Warlock? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” Warlock grimaced, and extricated himself from Adam’s grip. “Can everyone stop worrying about me for fifteen seconds, please?”

“Warlock,” Adam frowned, and Warlock did the only thing available to him: he threw himself back into the dancing crowd.

It was practically a melee in here, with close, hot bodies in the sweltering night air. Warlock fought his way to the middle, where there was an inexplicable pocket of space, and gasped for breath. He couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe?

Faces started swimming and blending before his eyes—Gabriel and Aziraphale and Wensleydale, Pepper and Agnes and Shadwell, Adam and Nanny and Newt. Individual sounds like music and laughter melted together into a screaming, molten cacophony against Warlock’s eardrums.

He couldn’t breathe.

Warlock was aware of his legs giving out, of the dark edges of his vision bleeding through, of screams, of people shouting his name, and then nothing.

.

“Is Warlock alright?” Agnes asked as Adam and Crowley emerged from Warlock’s room.

“I think so,” Adam said, his face pinched. Crowley rubbed Adam’s shoulder absently and nodded.

“Panic attack,” Crowley muttered. “He hasn’t had one this bad in a long time. Wedding stress, I think.”

Adam fidgeted. Crowley tightened his grip on Adam’s shoulder, giving him a tired, reassuring smile.

“Hidden depths, with that one,” Agnes mused as they walked back to the courtyard. The bride going catatonic in the middle of everything had pretty much put a damper on the rest of the festivities. Crowley knew that he himself was in no mood to entertain anymore.

“What?” Crowley said tiredly, Agnes’ words catching up to him. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure,” Agnes said. “Just a feeling.”

“Well. Whatever it is, we can sort it out tomorrow,” Crowley said. “Adam? Your folks’ room is ready, whenever they arrive tomorrow. Full week’s how long they’re staying, right?”

“Thanks,” Adam said, and gave Crowley a weak but genuine smile. “And yeah, that’s right. Can’t wait for you to meet your new in-laws. They’re going to be so confused by you.”

“That’s the spirit,” Crowley laughed. “Get some rest, alright, Warlock’s going to need all the support he can get tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Adam said, and waved as he began to trot off. “Night, Crowley. Night, Agnes.”

“Goodnight,” Agnes said. In silence she and Crowley began to make their way back to Crowley’s rooms. Every so often Agnes would sigh or click or make some other kind of distracted noise, grating at Crowley’s nerves.

“Alright, what?” Crowley finally said as they climbed the stairs to his room. “What’s the matter?”

“I told you, I’m not certain,” Agnes said, staring out at the sea and the stars, pausing on the landing before Crowley’s door. “I…just have a feeling.”

“What kind of feeling?” Crowley said sharply.

“A…calm feeling,” Agnes replied. “A bit like…like the passing of a storm. Chaos and a whirl of activity, but at the end…peace.”

Crowley looked out to sea, too, taking in the clear skies, the warm water, the glimmering stars.

“Your feelings are usually spot-on,” Crowley said, and opened his door, hearing Tracy’s snores from within. “If you say it’s going to be alright in the end, I trust you.”

“Crowley,” Agnes said, and Crowley froze. Agnes’ piercing gaze was back, the kind that looked like she was peering through a keyhole only she could see. Agnes was silent for a long time, and then she said, “Don’t wear heels tomorrow.”

Crowley snorted and rolled his eyes. “Please,” he said, “I’m the guardian of the bride. Heels are required.”

Agnes’ eyes danced as she shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“I’ll be fine,” Crowley said, leading the way into his room. “Now let’s—oh, bollocks, Tracy passed out on my bed, that’s just rude.”

“Push her off, then,” Agnes hummed, and the door closed behind them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More anxiety in this chapter and especially lots of anxiety-induced fighting and snapping; also the mortifying ordeal of trying to have a conversation with a person whom you once loved but haven't spoken to in years (SOS!). Also canon-typical Shadwell.

It was still early when Crowley forced himself up, barely after sunrise.

“Lots to do,” Crowley muttered, and more carefully opened his shutters to let the sunlight in. Tracy, who would not be moved from Crowley’s bed, groaned and rolled over. Agnes, who wisely slept with a sleeping mask on, didn’t move. “Oi! Dinosaurs! Time to get moving!”

“Whatever you say, Nannyzilla,” Agnes said, sounding perfectly awake, and Crowley, briefly, hated her. “Tracy? Are you up?”

Tracy made a sound like a deflating tire, and then another when Crowley bounced knees-first onto the mattress, jostling her. She reached over her shoulder and swatted at the nearest part of Crowley she could reach, and Crowley used this leverage to pull Tracy onto her back and begin tickling her mercilessly.

“Mercy! Mercy!” Tracy cried, half-screaming and laughing, putting her hand on her chest as she sat up. “Lord, Crowley, I’m far too old for you to treat like this!”

“You’re fine,” Crowley smirked, and stepped into another pair of work dungarees (the exact number of dungarees Crowley owned at any given moment was best left unknown, but it was at the very least more than one), shimmying them up over his overlarge shirt. “Come on! You two promised to do an interrogation this morning, and I need details!”

“Fine,” Tracy groaned, and threw a pillow at Crowley. “Go on, you menace, we’ll be along shortly. You have work to do, don’t you?”

“Tons,” Crowley said, and waited until Agnes took off her sleeping mask before he saluted. “Godspeed, ladies. I’ll be in the courtyard for most of today, if you need me.”

“Right,” Agnes nodded, and Crowley zipped downstairs to start cleaning up from last night and setting up for this afternoon.

Less than half an hour later, the courtyard coming along but still covered in bottles and discarded fans and at least one set of bikini bottoms Crowley didn’t want to think about, Crowley straightened up from his trash bin to see Warlock, walking across the courtyard like a man on a mission.

“Hey!” Crowley called, and Warlock stopped, but didn’t come to him. Crowley frowned and walked towards him instead. When Warlock turned around, his face was perfectly smooth and neutral.

“What’s up?” Warlock said.

“Good morning to you, too,” Crowley said wryly. “Are you alright? What happened last night?”

“Nothing, it’s fine,” Warlock said, and Crowley’s hand shot out to grab his shoulder before he could finish turning away.

“Hellspawn,” Crowley said gently, “really. What’s wrong? Did—did something happen with you and Adam last night?”

“Huh?” Warlock frowned.

“Well, you were with him, and then you ran off, I wasn’t sure what—look,” Crowley said, rubbing Warlock’s shoulders and drawing him in closer, “you can tell me, alright? What’s up?”

Warlock stared. Then his face cracked, buckled, just a little. “I don’t—I don’t know what to do,” he said in a small voice.

Oh, dear. Crowley thought this would probably happen. He smiled reassuringly and stroked Warlock’s hair out of his face.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Crowley said. “It’s still early, we can still call off the wedding if you’re having second thoughts. It’s alright, and I’m sure everyone will understand—”

“Excuse me?” Warlock said, in a tone of voice Crowley remembered all too well from his tumultuous teenage years. “Call off the wedding? Did you seriously just say that to me?”

“Is…that not what you’re so stressed about?” Crowley cringed internally as Warlock drew himself up, thunderheads gathering in his face. “Is that not what you’re trying to tell me you want?”

“No!” Warlock shouted, and every helper and guest in the courtyard went silent. Crowley threw a glare over his shoulder, and they all went back to work, determinedly not looking at Warlock and Crowley. “No, that’s—that’s what _you_ want!”

“Oi!” Crowley hissed, stung and doubly so for the true analysis. “I don’t know why you’ve got your knickers in a twist this morning, but taking it out on me isn’t going to help anything!”

“Well, you wouldn’t know, would you?” Warlock spat. “You never did the marriage thing! You just did the run off and raise someone else’s kid thing! Good for you, real healthy way to spend your sad single life! You couldn’t raise your own, so you just took someone else’s kid instead!”

“Warlock!” Crowley snapped, and instantly the fire in Warlock’s eyes went out, replaced with dawning horror. Crowley, dealing with his own immediate hurt, was maybe a bit too slow to reach out when Warlock flinched away.

“I’m—oh, no, Nanny, I didn’t—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—” Warlock stammered, then ran away. Crowley stumbled back as if hit, then mentally shook himself. Warlock was stressed. Warlock had just had a huge panic attack the night before and was clearly still anxious about something he didn’t want to talk about. That was fine. Warlock often did this, when he felt he was backed into a corner: turning people’s words back on them, maybe slightly projecting. Crowley had seen it before, and he knew that giving Warlock space was the best thing to do right now. Still hurt like a mother, but Crowley could deal with that later. He knew Warlock didn’t mean it.

Adam, Brian, and Wensleydale clattered across Crowley’s perception, laughing and joking loudly about something, and Crowley whirled around, a hiss on his lips.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Crowley snapped, shoving his trash bin at Adam, who looked alarmed. “You’re supposed to be helping! The wedding today is going to be absolutely beautiful, and the courtyard is still covered in trash! Why are you still standing here? Hop to, on the double, go, go, go, go!” Crowley glared until the boys were out of his sight, then looked down and swore. That stupid crack was still there. Good thing someone had conveniently left the caulking gun on a nearby table (and he did not especially want to wonder for what purpose).

Crowley swiped it up, then groaned. Someone had also apparently disassembled it somewhat. He wrestled with the tube of caulk and the apparatus for the caulking gun for a solid three minutes before a polite cough drew him back into the real world.

“Having trouble, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley swallowed hard, shock making him forget to look away from Aziraphale’s kind eyes and bashful smile. Age suited him, Crowley’s treacherous brain thought, and he forced his attention back down to the caulking gun.

“I’ve got it,” Crowley muttered, a few seconds late. “What are you doing here?”

“Truthfully, I’m here to see you,” Aziraphale said, taking a polite step closer when Crowley jammed something in the gun and swore. “Are you quite sure you—”

“No!” Crowley said, a little too loudly, and shook his head. “Really? Just to see me? You didn’t need to go so far out of your way, an—Aziraphale.” Crowley could have bitten his tongue in half for almost letting the endearment through. Slip of the tongue via surprise and distress, nothing more.

“Well, it’s not like I had any other methods, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, lacing his hands over his comfortable stomach that he had definitely grown more fully into. Unless Crowley’s eyes deceived him, Aziraphale was wearing the exact same soft waistcoat and bowtie combo he’d sported when they were barely in their twenties. “I seem to have misplaced your calling card.”

“Calling card,” Crowley snorted. The caulking gun was as fixed as it was going to get; Crowley knelt on the mosaic-tiled courtyard and began trying to deploy the caulk. “Listen to you. Anyone would think we were back in 1862, with how you carry on. Well, here in the modern world, this is what we have to work with—proper swear words, and debilitating mortgages, and _caulk guns that will work or so help me_ —” Crowley swore again, loudly, as the tip of the caulk tube broke off before he even got any use out of it.

“Here, let me help,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley waved him off.

“It’s fine, I’ve got it.”

“No, really, if you would just—”

“I’ve got it, I can deal with my own disasters, thanks,” Crowley said firmly, standing and taking a step back. Aziraphale, who had his hands held out, probably to take the caulking gun, gave him a sad sort of smile and let his hands fall again.

“I would just like to help,” Aziraphale said gently.

Crowley’s mouth twisted in time with his guts. He sighed.

“If you really want to help,” Crowley said, “you can start with helping to set up tables. The pattern’s marked on the ground with masking tape already.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale nodded, and smiled. Crowley twitched his mouth back, and immediately turned to hide in the kitchen. Capital place to be, the kitchen. Not only was it where the wedding cake was being put together, but it was a perfect place to lurk and watch Aziraphale work as he set up tables. Crowley wasn’t entirely sure what he was watching for, exactly, but Aziraphale carrying a table on his own that took two or three of the Them to handle was…something.

Crowley was distracted from his Aziraphale-watching by waving off the kitchen staff and placing the decorative fruit and herb bits on the wedding cake himself, listening to the chatter in mingled Greek and English go over his head, until suddenly it fell silent and melted into giggles. Crowley frowned, then turned, and Aziraphale was standing in the doorway, still buttoned-up, looking at him.

“Tables are finished,” Aziraphale said mildly. “Tablecloths, too. What next?”

Crowley’s throat worked. What next? Um. He knew this, he knew this—

“Lanterns!” Crowley squeaked, and coughed. “Lanterns. To hang in the olive tree over the main table. Please.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale nodded. “Where are they?”

“Boxes in the lobby, Adam knows where,” Crowley said, forcing himself to turn back around and not watch Aziraphale walk away, and especially not listening to the kitchen staff gossip about “the librarian’s” arms and backside. Crowley could witness both just fine for himself, thanks, watching Aziraphale balance on a ladder as he moved from branch to branch, hanging mason jar lanterns.

What had happened to them? Crowley found himself wondering. Objectively, he knew, of course he knew, but…what happened? When had they gone from the best of friends to…this? Not even being able to talk to each other without it turning into a fight or a misunderstanding, when they could talk at all? From the safety of the kitchen doorway, Crowley watched Aziraphale smile and nod at something Wensleydale said, and felt all his lonely aches clawing up his throat, compounded and squashed down and multiplied for the past fifteen years.

Aziraphale suddenly looked up, catching Crowley’s eye, and gave him a cautious smile. Crowley immediately stood, turned to go and look busy, and bumped into the door frame, knocking him flat on his backside and giving him a nice bump on his forehead.

“Ow,” Crowley hissed.

“Let me see,” Aziraphale’s voice sounded, closer than Crowley was expecting, and Crowley jumped. Aziraphale knelt by Crowley’s side and gently turned his head by the chin, smoothing his hair out of the way of his forehead. Crowley could have cried at the brush of those soft fingers. “It’s red, but it shouldn’t last. You’ll be fine.”

“I know,” Crowley snapped, but didn’t immediately move. “I’m alright, I keep telling you.”

“I know, but I worry,” Aziraphale said, turning his big earnest eyes down to Crowley’s. Crowley’s entire chest cavity wobbled. “I’ve…been worrying. For a long time.”

“Well. I’m sure your wife enjoys it when you dote on her like this,” Crowley said, scooting back and standing up on his own. Aziraphale’s blank expression only further irritated him. “I have work to do. Thanks for your help.”

“Crowley—”

Crowley turned on his heel and stalked off, going anywhere—absolutely anywhere—to get away from Aziraphale, to feel for a moment like he wasn’t drowning.

There was still lots to do. But Crowley could spare a moment to get his breath back, at least.

.

Aziraphale watched Crowley walk away and dithered. He was a champion ditherer, when he was in the proper mindset. Unsure social awkwardness brought on by a long estrangement from the one he knew best? As good a mindset as any for a dither.

While he dithered, he finished his task with the lanterns. Really, the place was starting to look quite charming already, as the chairs were set up around the winding line of tables and the arrangements were placed down the middle. Aziraphale watched for a moment, then resolved to follow the flow until he got a chance to speak with Crowley again.

The chance came sooner than he thought, when he saw Crowley lugging some kind of crate up the stairs to the courtyard. Aziraphale hustled, then caught the crate as it started to tip.

“Thanks,” Crowley panted, then realized who it was holding the other side. “Hgkk.”

“You have such a way with words, dear boy, always have,” Aziraphale said, allowing the merest quirk of a corner of his mouth when Crowley’s startled laughter turned to a cough.

“I’ve got it,” Crowley mumbled, but didn’t try very hard to take the crate back when Aziraphale shifted more of its weight into his own arms.

“I think you’ll find I have it now,” Aziraphale said. “Where to?”

“Kitchen,” Crowley said, and led the way. Back in the kitchen, the group of very Greek cooks and helpers giggled again as soon as Aziraphale stepped in, and he flashed them polite smiles. He could read Greek (classical Greek, anyway), and had heard it spoken aloud enough to pick up that they were likely talking about him, but the thread was lost on him completely. Crowley, pink-cheeked, pointed at a spot on the floor for Aziraphale to place the crate and retreated to the other side of the kitchen island, which was holding several fish-related dishes and a magnificent tiered wedding cake that looked as simple as it did delicious, draped with figs and grapes and olive leaves.

“Oh, that looks wonderful,” Aziraphale praised. “What flavor?”

“Cake flavor,” Crowley grunted, bending over the crate and coming back up with wine bottles. “Should be an ice chest in the courtyard already. Need these on to chill.”

“Righto,” Aziraphale nodded, loading up his arms with wine. White wine, mostly, a rather good vintage too on top of that. Crowley did have exquisite taste, even if he didn’t know specific years or vineyards by name. Or. He hadn’t, back in the day. Maybe he did now. Aziraphale wished he had the courage to ask.

It went on like this for the better part of two hours, Aziraphale finishing tasks and going back to Crowley for more. Sometimes they even said more than two words to each other. It was nice. It was…simple. The air between them was still thick with the past, but at least it was moving, rather than remaining stagnant and dead and unbreathable.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, once he’d finished fetching the boxes of silverware from the cellar, “about that comment you made earlier, regarding my wife—”

“Surprised you didn’t bring her,” Crowley said, setting a silverware box down harder than necessary. “Make it a grand old party.”

“But I don’t—”

“You’re done here,” Crowley said, turning to go, the dismissal as final as it was hurtful. “Bugger off, I’ve got the rest.”

“But—”

Aziraphale’s dithering caught up to him at the worst of moments; instead of following Crowley as he ducked and wove between wedding prep helpers, his lovely hair shining in the sun, Aziraphale instead hesitated. Somehow, surrounded by chattering people stringing lights around the courtyard and wedding reception tables, Aziraphale felt very alone.

Okay. They had talked more this morning than they had for years. He was busy right now. Aziraphale could take a hint and wait, at least for a little while. He did rather want to speak his piece before the wedding, but…

Speaking of which, he should go find Warlock and make sure he was alright; his fall the night before had looked dreadful.

Pretending he was cheered with this course of action, Aziraphale wandered off to do just that.

.

By chance Warlock ran slap-bang into Pepper as he left the smoldering wreckage of his fight with Nanny behind him.

“Hey,” he said, grabbing Pepper’s arm, “we need to talk.”

“Do we?” Pepper grimaced as Warlock dragged her along. He wasn’t sure where he was taking her, exactly, just that they needed to appear busy to avoid anyone talking to them for a minute.

“Yes,” Warlock snapped. “You’re supposed to be helping me.”

“I am helping you,” Pepper snapped back. “Do you know how hard it is to stop Adam Young from asking questions? I’m doing my best, but he’s worried about you, and he definitely knows something is up.”

“You said you’d be there to help stop everything blowing up in my face—”

“What I said,” Pepper argued, pulling Warlock to a stop and yanking her arm free, “was that I would do damage control _when_ it all blew up in your face. Look around, Warlock. It’s imploding. I told you before, and I’m telling you now, this was a terrible idea, and you don’t get to blame me just because you have poor foresight.”

Warlock knew she was right. However, he also didn’t appreciate feeling small and stupid, like he inevitably did when he and Pepper fought. Perhaps what came out of his mouth next was inevitable, given his track record.

“Fine, figures you can’t do the one thing I ask you for, but, then, you’re more Adam’s crony than you are my friend, aren’t you?” Warlock snarled, and stomped off to make his exit.

“It’s _your_ mess, Warlock!” Pepper yelled after him. “Now deal with it, and stop expecting everyone else around you to clean up your tantrums like the spoiled rich brat you are!”

Warlock stopped, but before he could come up with a retort crushing enough, Pepper was gone, stalking back to the villa. Warlock ground his teeth.

Okay. Actually? Forget this. He was going back to bed. Reset, restart, try this day again.

Warlock succeeded in making it to his room without being seen, and in tossing and turning and even dozing off for a while, but no matter where he looked, there was something to remind him of the whole sorry mess he’d made—the wedding dress in his closet, the bouquet on his bedside table, the pictures of him and Nanny and him and Adam on the walls…

Warlock threw a pillow over his face and groaned.

Well. Nothing for it. He was going to have to tell Adam. Adam could fix this.

.

“Alright, there’s the boat,” Tracy said, standing on the appropriate dock with Agnes. “How’s my hair?”

“Orange,” Agnes snorted, and Tracy tsked, rolling her eyes. “Are you set on this fishing lark, then?”

“Maybe just a walk around the island,” Tracy admitted. Agnes looked at Tracy’s sandals and sundress and privately agreed. “Either way, we’re getting the truth from them on why they’re here, and that’s that.”

“Marvelous,” Agnes deadpanned, and approached the sailboat with Tracy. There was no gangplank, so after a moment, Tracy cupped her hands around her mouth.

“Halloo in there!” she cried. “Coo-ee, Mr. Shadwell!”

“I hear ye, I hear ye,” grumbling from on deck sounded, and Shadwell sat up, his odd uniform coat falling off of him. He looked at Tracy, and instantly Agnes saw the flare of embarrassment and confused attraction in his aura. Tracy, for her part, oozed coquetry, and smiled. Shadwell turned brick-red. “Well? What do ye want, devil woman?”

“Charming,” Agnes muttered.

“Where’s the rest of the lads, then?” Tracy asked. “Mr. Gabriel and Mr. Aziraphale?”

“Not here,” Shadwell grunted. “Bewitched by feminine wiles, both of ‘em. Or. Well. Some sort of wiles, anyway.”

“How nice for them,” Tracy said, fluttering her lashes. Agnes rolled her eyes. “Mind if we come aboard?”

“The Witchfinder Navy suffers nae witches aboard her!” Shadwell barked. Panic, now. Interesting. “Begone, scarlet woman! Jezebel!”

“You say the nicest things, Mr. S,” Tracy laughed. “Well, when you’re ready, I believe you owe me your company at breakfast.”

“I’d sooner sup wi’ the devil!” Shadwell roared. Really, Agnes had no idea why she was here anymore, other than to watch Tracy pick another winner for a beau. Poor lamb. He had no idea what he was in for.

“At your leisure, then, dear,” Tracy said, and turned to Agnes, as if just remembering she was there. “I’ve got him sorted, love, you run along and see if you can find the others.”

“Oh, aye,” Agnes rolled her eyes again, and patted Tracy on the shoulder. “Take care you don’t confuse genuine unpleasantness with embarrassed affectation, Trace.”

“Oh, it’s just for the weekend,” Tracy smirked, and waved Agnes off. “I can take care of myself, Aggie, don’t you fret.”

“Very well,” Agnes sighed, and walked back to the villa.

Agnes thought that perhaps she ought to go find Anathema, or maybe find Aziraphale and Gabriel like Crowley wanted, but the ancient sense she trusted more than she trusted her own lungs to keep breathing whispered that those things would work themselves out without her meddling. There would be wedding preparations to be made still, for certain, but Agnes’ unerring instinct told her there was a very nice empty room and a cup of tea to be had within it. Truly, Crowley’s room had the best view; she understood fully why he chose it.

Agnes breathed in the fine weather and took the stairs slowly. Yes, it was a wonderful day for a wedding. Excellent day to celebrate love and life. Not a good day to suffer painful death by fire. Some other time, then. Agnes was patient. She could wait.

Though, if she also waited for things to resolve themselves completely, especially where Crowley was concerned, she might be waiting for the rest of eternity. This, too, was acceptable. But Agnes believed in nothing if not agents of change and chaos. Something was going to happen today. Something good. Something apart from Warlock’s wedding.

She couldn’t wait to see what it was.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some implied sexual content, some boundary-crossing resolved with a badly-needed discussion, and Gabriel. Just. So much Gabriel. Shorter chapter this time around but hopefully a fun one!

Gabriel woke up with the sun in his eyes, sandy-mouthed and sore, cramped onto a tiny cot.

His memories of the night before were hazy, but he remembered several things very clearly, chief of which was Beelzebub. And being molested by several over-eager twenty-somethings (though did it count as molestation if he was into it?). And Beelzebub threatening to “climb him like a tree” and making good on it, because they were very tiny and he was very large and how else were they going to reach his mouth to kiss it? Bitey kisses. Very bitey, sharp kisses that Gabriel hoped hadn’t left marks, because he didn’t know where he was going to find concealer this late in the game.

Gabriel gathered up his clothes, stretching out his aching muscles, and poked his head out of the door. He was pretty sure this was Beelzebub’s place, but he had no idea where that was, exactly. Some looking around oriented him to the space—it looked like a shack on the beach, with Villa Antonia above on the hillside. This was fine. Out on the beach was another cantina and a bunch of folding chairs, all empty for now, and in the cantina was a familiar small dark-haired figure.

Gabriel adjusted his shorts, decided against buttoning up his shirt, and sauntered onto the beach.

He tripped almost immediately.

How did those Baywatch lifeguards make it look so easy? Gabriel grimaced as he slipped and slid across the sand. This was impossible. And, worse, he knew Beelzebub had seen him already, and it looked like they were ignoring him as he approached. That wasn’t ideal.

Gabriel finally made it to the beach cantina and dropped into a stool, giving Beelzebub his most charming smile.

“Morning, Beez,” he said, leaning on his elbows. “Thought you might’ve stuck around, after last night.”

“Leave the past in the paszzzt,” Beelzebub said, monotone, and put a bottle of water on the bar top. “There. Drink that, then leave.”

“Leave?” Gabriel frowned. “Why?”

Beelzebub flashed their ice-blue eyes at him, but said nothing. Gabriel wracked his brains, trying to see if he could puzzle it out himself. Had he said something insulting? Commented on their height, maybe?

“I don’t usually szzleep with the help, but you’ll do,” Beelzebub said, and Gabriel blinked. Beelzebub glared at him, then went back to polishing a glass in the most stereotypical bartender move ever. “That’s what you said, in case you were wondering.”

“Oh.” Gabriel sipped his water. “Well. I don’t, usually.”

“Not the point,” Beelzebub snapped. “I think you win the record for most cluelessz idiot to have ever made my libido retract back into my body so fast that my hips dislocated.” Beelzebub glanced, just once, at Gabriel’s open shirt, and their mouth tightened as they looked away. Gabriel flattered himself that people went red when they saw him often but was especially sure Beelzebub was blushing. “Only you could ruin a one-night fling by opening your mouth two szzeconds before the main event.”

“Not _only_ me, surely,” Gabriel snorted.

“In my experience,” Beelzebub nodded, and fixed Gabriel with a sidelong look that chilled him, despite himself. “Doeszzz your mother know that you talk to people like that?”

“Well, actually—”

“It’s also not often that I meet someone I know for a fact is going to die alone and entirely deszzerve it,” Beelzebub continued, crossing their arms. “I thought the witchfinder you came with was it, maybe, but no, I think it’s you. Congratulationsz.”

“Die—hang on,” Gabriel frowned, “what makes you think I’m going to die alone?”

“Becauszzze your head is so stuffed full of itself, there’s no _room_ for anything elszze,” Beelzebub replied, flinging their hand towel at the bar top and pivoting to face him at last, their hands on their hips. “Because you’re so fixated on yourself, it’s disguszzting. No wonder Crowley dumped you.”

“Hey, she didn’t dump me,” Gabriel scowled. “She just—she—well, I didn’t call her back, either!”

“Well done,” Beelzebub said acidly, and snatched up their hand towel again. Gabriel watched them wipe down the spotless counter, then sighed. His life-coach had mentioned something about this, once. Something about making people feel “better” when they addressed a “concern” or “grievance” about Gabriel’s behavior. How was it supposed to go again? Ah, right.

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel said. Beelzebub paused. “You’re not just the help, you’re a person, and I would still sleep with you no matter what you do for a living.”

Beelzebub glared at him, then snorted. “You’re hopelessz.” They turned their back. “But thank you.”

“Still some time before the wedding,” Gabriel said idly. Beelzebub paused.

“My cabin,” they said, “ten minuteszzz. I have to close up here.” They turned around, pale eyes blazing. “And for the love of Satan, keep your pretty mouth shut.”

“I can keep a secret,” Gabriel nodded. Beelzebub snorted.

“Oh, I don’t care about that,” they said, a wicked grin curving their lips. “I just don’t want your chronic sztupidity to ruin the mood again.” They snapped their towel at him. “Go. Ten minutes. I’ll meet you there.”

Adventure, Gabriel thought to himself smugly as he tottered back to Beelzebub’ shack.

.

Newton Pulsifer’s life was a string of mistakes.

His very conception had been an accident, so admitted his mother (who then assured him accidental did not mean unwanted and would he like some more macaroni and cheese, dear?). He made lower marks in school than he meant to, and had tripped into an accounting degree rather than computer engineering as he’d intended. He had wound up in Greece rather than Greenwich, and worked for Crowley instead of going home. Newt was not a chaotic person despite the chaos that followed him. All he wanted was a nice normal life and maybe a telephone that didn’t explode in his hand. At least Crowley was content to let him run the books by hand; the day Crowley got the money to upgrade his system was the day Newt would likely be dumped into the Mediterranean to see where he would be swept off to next.

It was baffling, though entirely in the trend of his life, when Newt woke up dry-mouthed and with a pounding head in an unfamiliar bed with a woman he had no business waking up next to.

It wasn’t as though Anathema Device was unattractive, far from it. It was that very beauty that made this situation impossible. She was interesting and intense and forthright and by all rights should never have looked at an average bloke like Newt twice. Yet here they were, after all day yesterday with her practically stalking him, and Newt felt a very real panic rising in his gorge.

He looked under the blankets. He had his pants on, at least, but that didn’t mean nothing had happened. Anathema seemed to be wearing his shirt and some sleep bottoms, which put him slightly more at ease, but not by much. Newt put the blankets down and tried very hard to not have an aneurysm.

As if disturbed by his mental distress, Anathema stirred, yawning, and rolled over, rubbing her eyes. For heaven’s sake, she looked beautiful even sleep-rumpled with tangled hair. Newt gulped.

“Good morning,” Anathema said, her voice rough and sleepy.

Good morning, Newt should have said back. Instead, he opened his mouth, and said, “What just happened?”

“We had a lot of drinks last night,” Anathema said. Well, that tracked, and explained Newt’s headache. “Then we slept together.”

Newt made a noise like a tea kettle.

“Just sleeping,” Anathema clarified, though her eyes narrowed. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Newt replied, and sat up, dragging the sheets up with him for modesty. Anathema sat up as well, watching him and looking as confused as he felt. “What…what is happening, right now? With us?”

“What do you want to be happening?” Anathema asked.

“You’re deflecting,” Newt said. “I’ve known you less than twenty-four hours and already know you don’t deflect. You’re more direct. You say what you mean. I don’t have the faintest idea what is going on or why we’re in bed together or why you keep hanging around me, but it’s…it’s weird. And I would like an explanation, please.”

“You’re freaking out,” Anathema observed.

“I am not freaking out,” Newt corrected. “I am getting quite calmly worked up about a strange series of events I don’t have an answer to. Not that I ever do, but in this case, there’s someone to give me a straight answer, and I would like one, Anathema.”

Anathema stared at him. Newt’s throat bobbed, but he held eye contact.

“I’m a witch,” Anathema finally said. All of Sergeant Shadwell’s ravings about witches the night before echoed in Newt’s ears in that moment, and he clutched the sheet more carefully around himself. Should he get holy water? Matches? No, he was being ridiculous, and he needed to listen. “And so’s my grandmother. When we met you, she said…well, the gist is that I should pay attention to you, because you would be good for me. And she’s never wrong.”

Newt blinked, hoping maybe that would help his ringing ears. That was a lot to process, all at once. “So…you’re…what? Following me around now because your grandmother said we should be together?”

“Essentially,” Anathema nodded.

“Do you always do what she tells you to?” Newt asked.

“I try to,” Anathema said, drawing her knees up. “Sometimes…sometimes I fail her.”

“Has she said that to you?” Newt asked, forming his own private opinions about Anathema’s grandmother, if that was the case. Crowley’s friend or not, nobody should say that to another person unless it was really warranted.

Anathema tensed, then sighed. “No. But I know I have. I haven’t always followed her advice as well as I should’ve, and it…well, I should always try to listen to her.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s very wise and she knows what she’s talking about.” Anathema pulled her hair back from her face. “I just can’t…I can’t figure out what she sees in you, is all.”

“Thanks,” Newt said drily. He’d heard that one before, too.

“No, I didn’t mean—look,” Anathema said, and her brown cheeks darkened, “you’re very nice, and it’s been…something…talking to you, but—”

“You haven’t, though,” Newt said, and Anathema clicked her mouth shut. “You’ve been following me, and practically making notes on everything I do like you’re on a Nerd Safari, but you haven’t really talked to me. Or had a real conversation with me at all. And.” Newt took a deep breath. “And I think that if you’re going to throw yourself at someone, it should be because it’s what you want, and not what your grandmother wants.”

Anathema’s eyes widened, then flicked away. “You don’t get it.”

“Probably not,” Newt shrugged, “but you can’t let a borderline-elderly witch tell you what to do. Just like you can’t force me into compromising situations with you. Consent and respect, yeah?”

Anathema’s eyes flashed back to Newt and she lifted her head, looking a little sick. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Newt said quickly, laying a hand on Anathema’s shoulder and giving her a quick pat before snatching back, “but—but maybe we can be more…normal? About this? Be friends, at least?”

“Normal,” Anathema said, rolling the word around in her mouth. “I don’t…think I know how to do normal.”

“Well, I can try to show you,” Newt said, and held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Newton Pulsifer. Friends call me Newt. I work here at Villa Antonia but I’m from Dorking. Electronic devices like to spontaneously combust when I touch them, but I want to be a computer engineer anyway. Nice to meet you.”

Anathema stared at him, then snorted, then laughed. She put her hand in Newt’s and shook. “I’m Anathema Device. I’m a third-generation witch from Malibu and I don’t know how to run my life without prophetic input. Nice to meet you, too.”

“Great,” Newt said, and quirked a smile. “Can I have my shirt back?”

“I’ll give it back at breakfast,” Anathema said, and dropped Newt’s hand. “Assuming you want to go grab breakfast with me, that is. Would you? Like to grab breakfast?”

“Sure,” Newt nodded. Anathema smiled. “Breakfast sounds great. Normal, even.”

“Perfectly normal,” Anathema agreed. “And I’m sorry for getting offended about you being weirded out over potentially having sex with me.”

“One—one step at a time,” Newt coughed, and reached his foot out from under the blankets to grab his trousers with his toes. “Don’t even know if I like sex, actually. Never done it before.”

“It’s alright,” Anathema said as Newt pulled on his jeans and stood up. “Feel free to give me a call if you ever want to try it.”

Newt felt himself turn puce down to his chest as he hunted for his glasses.

“I’ll—bear that in mind,” he said.

There were some raised eyebrows as Newt walked back to his own room draped in a beach towel, but small price to pay for the relief of setting things straight with Anathema. It figured he couldn’t even make friends in the usual way. But maybe that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

.

Crowley was not expecting Gabriel to march up to him around mid-morning with tousled hair and swollen lips and clear bite marks on his neck and chest.

“Ash,” Gabriel said, “or—Crowley, sorry—I want to say that I am sorry.”

Crowley, still holding a stack of plates, stared at him. Then he put down the plates on the table in front of him, carefully.

“What’s wrong with you, then?” Crowley asked. “You look like you got mauled by something.”

“I got mauled by an epiphany,” Gabriel chirped. “And the epiphany is that when we were dating, or whatever it was we were doing, back at the Dowlings’ house, I talked down to you like you were a servant even though you’re a person, and that was wrong of me. So I’m sorry.”

“Right,” Crowley said. Behind Gabriel, Beelzebub was coming up the stairs to the courtyard, looking their usual put-together slouchy self.

“Morning, bosszz,” Beelzebub droned at him, and right in full view of Crowley and God and everyone, smacked Gabriel on the behind. Crowley had difficulty not dropping his jaw as Gabriel made a considering sort of grunt and Beelzebub walked to the cantina as if nothing had happened. Crowley turned back to Gabriel, who was looking more pleased with himself than Crowley had ever seen him, even the time he successfully drove a limo through downtown London without forgetting once which side of the road he was meant to be on.

“I don’t actually want to know,” Crowley said, massaging his temples, “but. Thanks, I guess. For the apology.”

“You’re welcome,” Gabriel said, and scratched at a hickey. “Do you have concealer?”

“You’d need to cake it on with a trowel to cover those up,” Crowley said, and Gabriel sighed. “Maybe try ice.”

“Sure thing,” Gabriel said, and waved, walking off. “Great talk! Keep up the good work!”

Crowley shook his head and continued setting out plates. Today was so weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that was basically the "Does Your Mother Know" sequence, which is super fun in the Mamma Mia film but...didn't quite fit the tone of how both Gabriel/Beelzebub and Newt/Anathema's relationships were developing. Also, I have no idea if ice will help the appearance of bites and hickeys but it's worth a shot, right?
> 
> Also playing around with ace-spectrum Newt, since that's a galaxy-brained take I didn't think of until someone mentioned it in a discord server I'm in and I about fell out on the floor with the force of its brilliance. This could also be read as aspec Anathema, too, come to think of it, but whatever floats y'all's boats, at least they're in a healthier place now.

**Author's Note:**

> (And as a fun side-note, people interested in seeing what the wedding scene in the film would have looked like if I had kept Hastur should check my instagram at quillydoodle, because I may have posted a fun little doodle there along that vein.)
> 
> Quillyfied on tumblr, my dudes!


End file.
